After

Now that her heart is bent over
like larkspur after a storm,

she stays in bed past milking time,
pulling the quilt

tight around her shoulders
until her collie barks her

down the stairs
to lift the backdoor latch.

She kneels to light the cipeens
piled on last night’s embers.

Her bones creak
like the bolt on the door of the barn.

A cup of oats, two cups of water,
a pinch of salt –

porridge, tea and tablets,
a meal for a queen.

Every day without him
is too long;

she’s waiting
with the tired cows at the gate.