Yesterday our neighbour wore a black coverall
over her frock, and carried a basin
of cleaned fragrant trout caught
in the river by her sons,
home for the funeral. “He went
in his sleep,” she said, the tops of her ears
as red as the veins in her cheek.
“And there were six or seven bouquets
for the poor man. I have no fear now,
none at all, of living in this house
alone. But when the winter comes, perhaps
I shall decide to visit my children.”
From Notes From a Mountain Village, forthcoming with Barbican Press in 2015.