The Widow’s Bed

by Christie Suyanto

“Who’s there?” Lady Anne says as I
knock on her door, her voice a frog
drowned in sour whisky (or tears).
I wait for her to open it
and begin to rehearse my speech:

“My lady Anne, apologies.
Let me crawl onto your bed and
confess to you the lie I told.
The invitation wasn’t lost
in the wind, nor murdered by the
sea. I simply did not send it.

All the mice heard you, my dear Anne.
Weeping underneath this bed, your
cries his funeral hymn, the taps
of your fingers Staccato beats
against the headboard. Meanwhile I
was away, cruising the sea with
my own living laughing love. His
feathers my blanket and my bed.

So how could I do it, dear Anne:
invite you to my wedding feast?
You were still dressed in black and we
sould not send you a new gown that
does not reek of lost love and smoke.
Though we did bring much money, still
one can’t buy a gown at the sea.

Besides, you were mourning, dear Anne.
Imagine if you were to see
us dancing in the moonlit glee.
Your grief’s the nemesis of my
ardor. My new found hungry love.

So please, forgive me, my dear Anne.
But do know that I understand
(or at least I try to, really)
how much sadness is involved when
one has just lost one’s spouse. I know
I’ll die if I ever lose my
Owl, as my slow breaths echo his.

Again, forgive me, my dear Anne.
I could not send it, my dear Anne.”