Only certain hands know certain soil...

Yes. Perfect.

satin?
i love the imagery, play of words.
men who think women need guidance,
women who let them think it?

need to come back to this

"Maybe boozy." A woman alone is always a project, isn't she?

Wonderful and strong.
Rated.

Very strong (sati-burning of hindu widow).

(I am always surprised by how little I know and also by correlations)
meaning, what Hells Bells explained, in the indigenous culture of my country, the favorite wife was buried alive with her chief-husband
so much for being royalty
makes you kind of wish you were the bickering sort
and what Bellwether said, she has this ability to pierce through meaning that I envy, most respectfully so

okay, now that I went and Googled widow's weeds, on a whim, it hits me, how tight this poem is, how each line is dripping (I hate that verb, but oh well) with layers of meaning

vanessa said it. but the line, for me, that says the most is "she lives the story they know the plot." this is sooo good.

Well done.

that was gorgeous.

This is stunning in it's truth...xox

The first two lines say it all. What Buffy said.

Happy wives are all alike, every widow is unhappy in her own way.

"she lives the story they know the plot"--true of many states of being, but certainly makes sense with this one

I fear for the day when a close friend is widowed. I fear that I will "give them room", and be an ineffectual friend. I fear that I will try to hard and be the cause of what this author is feeling. I fear death, but rarely my own. There is just no handbook...

Rated.

The poem is of the stunning, take-your-breath-away sort. Beautiful, not a wasted word, very tight, perfect.
And the comments are wonderful in their own right. I especially like what catch 22 said.
Rated.

what catch related, a certain feel to this, it's different from your others, less dainty, a little dour. Enjoyed.

This reminded me of a anti-garden woman.
She was born, and raised in Manhattan, NYC.
Her two parents died when She was twelve.
`
Then - If I couldn't figure lawyers, I plant greens.
The second helpmeet knew I was growing flowers,
kale, swiss chard, bee-balm, tarragon, and berries.
The human heart is like (analogy) a garden. Weed.
I neighbors gardener has no teeth, green teeth, kiss.
huh?
If you stop at my barn-sale and see a black and white
TV?
Make offer?
You haul for free.
I give you berries.
You haul rubbish.
No pull pot weed.
Cops wear leather.
We better beware.
Black and blue lip?
I sure hope arugula.
Chew greens. no kiss.
Kiss red raspberry lip.
No pop Pa Pa in eyes.
I tired of fat lip. broke.
Broke. And, no fronts`
`
Tooth. Oh, barter a
half/pint for new hoe
help the garden grow
it take a pick and hoe
a piece of fertile land.

Thank you every one for visiting and reading. I appreciate your generous, interesting comments (though Rita's gave me pause: I thought, "dainty?" then "oh crap.")

So often I read your stuff and want to pull away the veil, to see firsthand what happened. These things come into focus very slowly for me. Hm. Like, suppose, that secret heart.

Such truth I hear here. Such knowing.