To climb these stairs again, bearing a tray
Might be to find you pillowed with your books
Your inventories listing gowns and frocks
As if preparing for a holiday
Or, turning from the landing, I
Might find my presence watched through your kaleidoscope
A symmetry of husbands
Each redesigned in lovely forms of foresight
Prayer and hope
I climb these stairs a dozen times a day, and
By the open window, wait, looking in at where you died
My hands become a tray
Offering me, my flesh, my soul, my skin
Grief wrongs us so
I stand and wait
And cry for the absurd forgiveness
Not knowing why