the widow

she was standing next to the open grave
her heavy shining boots in the red clay
semiotics of the sexual militarism

her arms were crossed over her chest
the thick red nail polish
was the perfect decoration of her tight black dress
boiling blood

neutral makeup
she was biting her lower lip
musing

I didn’t see her eyes behind the fringe of her hair
(the future will come earlier than we may think)

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