Three Fingers
They are ready to close
his coffin. She raises
her hand,
not yet.
A step forward, head tipped right
she gazes at him
the last time
in fifty-four years,
her life. Three fingers
to her lips, she presses in
grief
as if she could hold it,
as if that
could contain it.
his coffin. She raises
her hand,
not yet.
A step forward, head tipped right
she gazes at him
the last time
in fifty-four years,
her life. Three fingers
to her lips, she presses in
grief
as if she could hold it,
as if that
could contain it.
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