Black Widows

A warm day in March and I
head to the park. The sun
stretches shadows, and,
cloaked in winter-dark I
stretch too, a black cat
elongated on sun-warmed
grass.

The sun makes its excuses,
and sluices its way through
the bare bone branches
to kiss my cheek politely.
My black-clothed body
grows hotter, though the
air is cool and crisp as an
apple.

I think of widows,
black shrouded in the
Mediterranean sunshine.
How do they bear it?
Sweat forms like beads of
glass.

But after so harsh a winter,
it does one good, this sun.
It radiates all the warmth
of a fireplace, or of two
bodies pressed together,
skin on skin.

 If I were a
widow, I'd  wear black
too, and sit in my garden
in the sun's embrace.
I'd close my eyes and
my heartache would
evaporate, like a bowl of
water.