Now that She has Gone Away

Now that She has Gone Away

Now that She has Gone Away

She never liked pansies. All those little faces,
looking at you. I always made a point of sowing them.
When I left it late, I bought young plants in trays.
It was against my husband as well.
Not that he minded what flowers I grew,
but she was his mother:
it was my small gesture of defiance,
a staking of territory; mine, not hers.
He never noticed and I never told him.
He grows sorrowful when I reveal my jealous nature.

It is May now, and the first held sun of the year.
The pansies in the long box under the window
are straining to reach round the edge of the wall
and push up their velvet faces.
Every time I pass I feel their eyes following me.
Their plaintive yellow and purple and garnet gazes.
That’s all she does now. Follows her husband around.
If I had it again I would open my heart and share everything.