Unfound

Unfound

A word ma’am I beg a word 

for this cup

            she held it

            out, chipped

            first sharp

            now smooth

            to the lips.

            she drank

            from it.

A word.  They gave you a word

when your husband died.  They gave Johnny

a word when he was left

on the grocery step

a Christmas or two

ago. 

            oh cup

            oh

            bottomless

            oh

            cup

            oh

            smut of the flown

            oh

            doves

Not Widow.  Not Dowager.  Not Relict.

Or Orphan. Or Foundling. Or Waif or Stray.

What, please you, for this: a flown soul remaining?

What?  But please, pin it here

            she lifts

            her dirty shirt.

            the pale heart’s

            a bare pulse

            in the wake

            of her

            broke open

            bone grotto

a word for me, the mother

of two

my last two

(i've buried seven

now)

who stayed 

sunk under the water

until, recovered, were laid out

in straight line

like in some fairy story