The Blanket And The Widow Poem by Irene Cunningham

Wind me around your legs
spill soup and tomato seeds over
my darned patches.
Feed me.

I don’t have time for cold weather
cruises and dressing for dinner and
being polite to lilac blondes
in elegant greys.
Leave me be.

I could make you dream
smell his hands, his morning armpits
hear the movement of his hungover bowels;
I can resurrect your sex life.
Trust me.

You accuse me of desertion and failure.
I hope you mould into the last box
for Oxfam, never to be chosen.
Leave me be.

Pick me up off this chair, his death bed
I want to live again, I need to breathe.
I could ease life into you.
Save me.

His shadow lies askew in your folds.
Leave me be.

(published by New Writing Scotland in 1992)