She outlived two husbands.
Lost one to cancer,
and the other to heart disease.
She speaks of them both,
in a raspy, husky tone
as if their manliness still permeates
her softening folds of womanhood.
She may be a two-timed widow,
but she states life has weathered her fair.
Chiseled lines of sweetbread goodness
And sugar-cured acceptance crease her face.
She talks fondly about her two sons,
offspring from each union.
One's in California teaching,
and the other in New York,
searching for his inner hands.
She doesn’t wrestle with regrets.
Grandchildren will be born if they are meant to be,
Unapologetic aching bones,
just means she’s still besting the Grim Reaper.
Laughing as if she owns laughter,
she says, “I’ve done my share of living.
Been around a bush or two,”
With a wink she adds,
“I’ve even dallied behind a few.”
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