By Jess Mills
I will put on widows’ weeds. Everyone will see my sorrow. In shops, women will purse up their smiles, avert their eyes from the cross-hatch of my short, black veil. Children will cease their loud, incessant play, back themselves against their mothers’ knees, and stare at me with round eyes. The whisper of my long black skirts will say I am dead. I am ashes. Let all who step aside to let me pass halt their lucky lives and tremble. Let no one laugh. Let no one speak of dancing. I am black with fury, I am red with rage. You, my only love, you shrouded my body in a costume of despair and you left me here in the company of wraiths.
Copyright Mills 2017