Widow

when asked

“how are you doing”

she realizes
that certain phrases
poke and prod at a tenderness
similar to that found around
any other wound 

now
she’s lying in the half-empty bed and
she can’t stop touching it herself 

it is hot to the finger tip
feels ready to explode 
sobbing seems to soothe it for a few minutes
or hours until

something else — junk mail perhaps
stamped with a once familiar name
or the slant of light on the vacant end
of the old couch
stabs it again

“how are you doing”
“how are you doing”
“how are you doing”

tenderly spoken
apparently taken well 
even as they rasp across 
what remains unhealed

we say she seems to be 
doing as well as can be
expected
but then again
we say a lot of things
we never bother to examine