Grave Days
By Stephen Reilly
Six months, fifteen days
Much like a grave robber in a 1940s film,
all black and white and grey, the widower opens
her dresser. Uncertain whether he wants to sort
what she's left behind, deciding what's bound
for Salvation Army and Goodwill where
all her bric-a-brac sells for five cents on a dollar,
her clothes for even less. The widower tells
the daughters to divvy up jewelry among themselves.
He holds onto the wedding bands. No purge complete.
Should it be? Caretaker of a mausoleum?
The widower cannot shake his feelings of betrayal.
