That year you lost your husband
you wore one brave face after another.
Next thing, you kept changing countries.
Making a fresh start, you called it.

And still each new place sang,
claiming you against the dark.
He would have loved that —
you travelling solo pulled by both worlds.

His voice, breath — hand on your shoulder.
Arms and bodies linked on a bed
that moved like an ocean.
I wondered if you’d break.

Looking closer,
I saw you had broken —
you spent hours skeining days
that were all you had
to line your nomad shelter.