Women Singing When Their Husbands Are Gone

for Joan Williams

Traveller going south
I warned you
About those hidden voices in the woods
Mouths like does eating moss

Beyond that spring
Where you threw rocks
And can return
Your toenails come loose

The odor in the coats on the bent nails
Like damp sacks for a hinge
The slats down under the bed
I warned you

Flies wanting a warm place to stay
And the three-quarter moon
Quieter than a child slicing a melon
Like dirt smeared over with seeds

© Ginny Stanford