For Chopin’s Women

When you can’t listen to any more
love songs and the ones in your head

have begun to fade, and your lover has stopped
singing about you, and reticent letters have come

to an end, and your children are seldom
adorable, and your husband only

a friend, disappointment gently gives
way to weightless, faceless grace.

There is nothing to be unmade. Nothing
about which to be jaded.  Nothing

from which to run.  Nothing
for which to wait.  Unsolved,

you just stay. Watch
the day.  Play at words.

Maybe pray to recall
how to love in this strange

place, or at the edge
of your mind, swim away.


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