Widow

James Croal Jackson

Every night Mom drowns

in loud T.V. next to dusty organ bloomed

with old portraits. Family’s

family, including things:

the security system greets her

when returning from the store.

The red carpet, the torn couch,

the gunky dishwasher. Coming home

from work through a sea of dark Ohio

into a reverberating house of off-white

rooms so silent the garage door screams

shut. The floors don’t creak, they wail

and faucets cry. A cabinet full

of Cabernet. A corkscrew hangs,

rusted at the hinge.