Widow

widow of three days

imploring the gold Buddha

to show compassion

Stories

making up stories

about lemons and landslides

as she goes along

a thin stream of light

trickling from the topmost shelf

to the stove below

Klondike gallery—

the greed of Forty-Niners

etched in black and white

butterflies dancing

even before the night train

drifts from the station

the storytelling

of dizzying fragrances

in butterfly camps

footsore and weary

a dozen tattered pilgrims

third year on the road

her crimson sari

unraveling thread by thread—

so many voyeurs

outside the kitchen

a pan of shallow water

breeding pool for pests

deep in Adam’s chest

the valley of the shadow

laying waste his hope