The Whistling Fire

I sign my name with a widow’s anguish,
A dowager’s flourish, a dangerous ease.
I donate your suits to charities.

I ask a sympathetic priest for prayers.
And send word to the office you won’t be in.
Won’t ever come back in again.

I wrestle myself into mourning dress.
I place the paperwhites on the sill.
I still my nerves with a happy pill.

I settle your debts, your bets, your accounts.
I count up your assets. Assess my regret.
Then I sit in our empty kitchenette.

And try my damnedest to forget.

© 2010 Jill Alexander Essbaum