Thursday: Zara’s Ink Blot
The Widow’s Poem
By Zara D. Garcia-Alvarez
***
I wept because I pictured you dying. Correction—
I wept because I pictured your funeral
and I wasn’t there.
***
I refused to play the widow
to wear black and look solemn.
***
Yes, those who
never agreed to me or with me
in the first place
those who are
now curious at what I will do
how deep my sorrow should be to their liking
how I will finally measure up
***
but I did not go to your funeral, My Love.
***
You died years before they buried you
before they bought white flowers
and chanted prayers in their tongues.
***
Today they will give their practiced speeches
and each will profess how they loved you
the most:
***
the sisters in black veils with tissue
in their hands
dabbing their eyes
for grief, too, must have its show
***
—that one with the sour expression
whose mouth always remains a straight line
***
(your death is like a slap in her face finally!)
***
(though she blames me
she cannot say so out loud
for she loves her righteousness
as much as she loves
her hypocrisy)
***
—and the brothers who pretend for today
if only for today
that, yes, you were the favourite son
though you did wrong
***
by not following their path to the end
(leading the choir with your guitar
teaching the children to remember the stories
—Noah, the Flood, obedience—
that sort
and preaching in the pulpit
without tempting the wives or the single
Christian women in the pews.
***
Oh, but how they loved you!
In your tie, your suit, your brand new shoes.
They loved you
though you denied it
many times.)
***
Your parents aren’t here to witness the burial
to raise their hands in supplication
to reaffirm that God knows best.
***
They evangelized the world
even our marriage
though they knew not what it was
to hate and love
and hate
with passion—even to curse
***
(we cursed as much as we ate—
out loud or in contemptuous silence.)
***
Your mother so domesticated
in her small kitchen
happy with her cooking
her service
her doting
her love
***
she made pupusas like they were
offerings
while your father
sat king-like
with the Book in his hand.
***
He was smart enough
to speak enough English
(if only a little)
smart enough to tell you
he loved you
strict and rigid
conservative bull-headed
but he was kind, too—
he could hug.
***
But your ex-lovers
how they sneak in
like bad dreams
the nightmare where they have
no faces
no names
(lurking behind husbands and children)
***
they, too, are here.
***
Their profession of love for you
is raw and stagnant
wistful at the coffin
secretive
of the One-that-Got-Away.
***
…Perhaps
you are glad to see them
to see them finally weep over the loss
a secret triumph to know at last
that you were loved
as you thought
as you wished for…
***
(the cowboy boots
the secret pink thongs
the flamboyant cousin with big hair…)
***
it is your last secret
the one that lingers
after you have gone
it resides there
in their faces
—bewilderment—
you can no longer
deny them
answer them back
walk away or slam down
the phone
***
…Perhaps
you did not love me
but married me instead
***
for love is for the lovers
and those you claimed
you never had
***
they are there
skimming the photographs
looking for their faces
resolving to reconcile
old lusts and regret
***
(there are no pink thongs
no cowboy boots
no young girl in a bright, yellow dress—
I made you rip those photographs
and burn them in our backyard)
***
for I know I am only half-wife
the rest of you always somewhere
belonging to scars of
secret lips and lingering perfume
and dark Spanish dialect
***
these women with their made-up, blotchy eyes
their curly, spoofed-up greasy hair
and loud jewellery
these yapping, Salsa-dancing, secret coven
of women
who had their mark on you
who had you between their long, red
fingernails
***
with names like
Carla-Juana-Susy-Alicia
***
And the sisters with their special mugs and secret spices
their photographic memories
of you
the sweat of your brow after soccer
the names of every girl
you ever dated or loved
***
how clever and dumb
and boring they were
your sisters
to keep me out
***
and the brothers with their fists of bravado
and sermons
regretting they never called more
nor visited your firstborn son
***
they failed to take you out fishing
or listen to you play your guitar
they never arm wrestled you
or bought you a ticket to a baseball
game
(they prayed for you instead)
but they never called
***
and the nephews and nieces
who coddled you
clinging to your knees
begging for attention
wanting presents and advice and
sometimes your money or your car
***
they are grown men and women now
strangers in good clothing.
***
They all assert themselves in their
memories
implying
they loved you best
like the beat of the chest
of a band of baboons
***
they will show the visitors
when the visitors come.
***
And the pastor continues singing
his praises and tells us
to be brave
to be strong
that this, too,
shall pass
(relieved that for this,
there is a God)
***
the musicians
are making tribute
playing old songs
boleros
hymns
and more boleros
***
and the children are running
in the hallway
chasing ribbons on skirts
pulling tight at their neckties
fleeing the grandmothers
who fix and pat their hair
***
the hosts and the caterers
are polite and kind—and very polite
concentrating on the power
of bereavement
making it light
serving coffee and tea
with biscuits
on white napkins
(they, too, are relieved
it is not them or their family)
***
the carpet has been vacuumed
the lights are dim and yellow
and people are containing their whispers
nodding their heads
signing the guest book
touching your photographs
***
work mates are here, too,
the ones you never liked
the ones who never knew you
they shake hands with each other
eyeing the buffet table for chicken or turkey
or soup
a group of them
targeting the bread
***
the hush is ridiculously thick
thinking they might wake you
if they speak too harshly too happy
too loud
***
there is regret
not in your dying
but in their relief—
it is not them inside that coffin
it is not them who must face
the wife
***
they may even ask,
“Where is she? His wife?”
***
In their minds they have been asking
***
looking for me in the crowd
following the hearse
certain I am in the front row
of the first pew
—certain of so many things
***
they listen for loud weeping
marks of mascara that continue to run
black stockings and heels
and the matching purse
—a fainted body
a drama
a hand
***
but no.
***
I will not play widow today.
Not commend you to strangers
or tell them our secret jokes
or give myself over to their pity and fussing
let them pass me tissue and cold coffee
or tell my children they look exactly like you
(how brave they are
that there is such a place
as a thing called Heaven)
***
no.
***
I will not be at your gravesite
to watch your box lower
into the ground
to drop a flower or a handful of dirt
to say goodbye only to be put
into a car
***
I will not weep and faint
sign papers
look over a will
***
I am instead.
***
Home in the quiet
competing with your absence
looking for you
afraid of the curtains
a door left open
of noises not my own.
***
I will look at photos
dwell a little
replay the answering machine
of your voice
Sorry, we’re not here right now
to take your call…
Beep!
Sorry, we’re not here right now
to take your call…
Beep!
***
collect all your letters
and put things in boxes
the junk I couldn’t stand
or didn’t buy and didn’t want
***
smell your cologne—
Azzaro was your favourite
you wore it on weekends
ever since I told you
it made you smell like
my man.
***
I am instead.
***
In the closet
hiding from your shadow
your kisses
the voice that always said,
“Come back to me, Baby…”
***
Instead it is me:
“Come back to me, Baby…”
breathing loudly—
breathing loudly
among your clothes.
***
