by Thelma Olshansky
He divorced her when the kids were grown,
And put another woman in her place.
She cried and raged a while, then carried on.
She speaks in platitudes and sets her face.
The other woman never married him–
I don¹t know why. He never spoke of it.
When he was old and slow, she took him in,
A cranky and demanding invalid.
The cast-off widow wears a tasteful hat.
The priest looks tired, and the Mass is short.
With spinster cousins, childless friends, she chats,
The loyal subjects of her kitchen-court.
For better or for worse. She meant her vows.
She has been faithful. She has no remorse.
She suffered once already. She allows
Herself to feel no pain at this divorce.
The other woman came to church in black,
And hesitated as she stepped inside.
She found a pew and sat alone in back.
She was the only one of us who cried.
