As widows in their fifties
they donned black, my grandmothers:
high-necked, tight-waisted, corseted,
silk for Sundays, crepe for afternoons,
checkerboard black and white
for morning duties; ebony cross
with pearls, a gold watch pinned
on the chest, a birthstone brooch,
black shoes, black hose, black veils,
black god-knows-what-else never seen.
Oh, there might be a silver fox
with black, black eyes and nose
over the shoulders, and in puffs and coils
of silver hair, thick combs of tortoiseshell
not quite so black, but dark.
Black was the ribbon on the wreath
that hung on the door for the husband
newly dead. Handkerchiefs were edged
in black, notepaper had a border
of black to signal widowhood.
But they were merry, my grandmothers.
Their mirth flowed over at a jest,
a child’s naiveté, the ways
of the sultanic black cat, Blackamoor.
I see one at the piano: “Liebestod”
romps into “Maple Leaf Rag,”
her black toe tapping.
I see the other at the backyard pump
with a bowl of surplus pancakes
for the birds: orioles, tanagers,
jays and cardinals, wild with color
and competition. I hear her cries
of laughter as her blacksleeved arms
hold the hotcakes aloft
among the dip and swirl of brilliant wings.