Another Poem from The Widows' Handbook--this one by Regina Murray Brault

The Sisterhood

Words travel fast on Widows' Row.

They say

another casserole to bake

another wake to walk through.

It is our rite

to pray for him who lies at rest

in his best suit--

something he would not allow himself

until today.

We'll drink a toast to him

who won't be home for her beef stew

although she'll set the place

and call his name.

We are the sisterhood of silence

who won't remind her

that we who must give life

are taught 

to wear our emptied wombs

as though they were blue ribbons

from the county fair

and we who are dealt death 

are taught 

to plug our hollowed hearts

with homemade carrot cakes

while burying our men as we

do iris bulbs in gardens.

Instead, those of us who call it basic black

and crowd the back pews of the church

will watch and wait

 while others tell her

time will heal all wounds.

The words our tongues find hard to form

for each of us has learned

in turn

that there are secrets

 widows keep.