husband poem

i am a widow in the sense that
i have cut my hair & buried it
with my husband. sometimes it rises
from the grave to ask for lollipops.
we are all just sugar spirits.
child-fingered & goat-hearted. 
i reach for a jar swarmed by ants.
he used to stand on the ceiling
& tell me how he wanted to be worshipped.
i made lemon fish & fist-stuffed chicken. 
when my hair is furious 
it will look for him. he is no longer
my husband. instead, he is a man 
with a radio for a mouth. his birthday
is knit into my calendar. i tell him,
"this is not your face" when i lift
a potato from the dirt & find him screaming.
i used to think i could grow my hair
long enough to please him. 
horse bridle. wedding bridal. 
the sour peaches the trees grew for us.
each of them, our children. i filled my pockets.
felt their soft infant hair. 
i entombed them with my hair
where they will always be dragons.
sometimes i see myself 
as a living sever. where the world was
cut into another continent.
i run away from everything i can
but especially men. especially husbands.
keep what i must. 
i still have keys to their houses.
spoons stolen from the their cabinets.
what's ours is ours. my hair. 
my heaven. your pit.