Bess

My love, you are the weight
I carry now. This leather bag
hangs against my hip
and bulges with your head.

I hear the whispers when I pass.
‘Look at Widow Raleigh.
Poor mad woman.
Why not be content
with a lock of his hair?’

But I have the whole moon of you.

How I love to slip my fingers
inside your crackled cocoon,

explore the geographies
of your exquisite face,
your brow, your cheek.
How strange to find
no warmth there.

My fingertips linger
on the curve of fixed lips.
It's as though your laugh
has only just left.

At night I bathe you
in rosemary and lavender,
water clouded with sweetness.
I wreathe you in your finest ruff,
every laced purl pressed straight.

You rest beside me on the bed.
And the night is ours again.

Let your body rot.
Let the worms
have what is left.
They may take the flesh
but they will not steal
our goodnight kiss.