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Aged woolen women, like old siddurim—moldy, mossy
Bound in coarse canvas;
Pointless bellies dangling after them like empty sacks,
Dried-out breasts, like horseradish roots, swaying back and forth.…
I had learned of Louise’s suicide upon my return to Blida, my hometown. Spring had just filled the streets with the insolent beauty of those impassive young women. Violent yet secretive, as in Spain…
I have set this stone as a weight, not as a memorial, over my wife’s grave, lest (God forbid!) she rise from the dead and come back home.