I forgive you

for teasing me I smell good—

fragrant like a viuda.

But I have not buried my husband,

nor do I want to. 
The only viuda I knew was my grandmother,

who spent her days playing cards

with the neighbors, and died

two years later of heart failure

 on grandfather’s birth anniversary.

A sweet ending, some might say.

But not for me.
This scent you detect, is it

the musk of a woman wasted

on aloneness? Or the sandalwood

of a chest of secrets opened?

Or is it the essence of almonds trailing

after a promise unfulfilled?

Perhaps it is the burst

of jasmine on a night

spent dwelling on a mistake;

the spray of freesias on a day

drained wishing for something back;

the nip and sting of orange peels

while pondering revenge.
I would have you know

the old meaning of “widow”

in Sanskrit is “vidhwa,” solitary,

and elsewhere “separated”

eating only boiled rice

but not bereft,

and no bereavement,

treading on grief like the wife of Bath

wearing red silk stockings

on a pilgrimage.

In this manner it could be true

I am a widow

seeking to be shriven of my foolishness

yet holding fast to the hope of another

chance, a life flaming anew

with the fragrance of sanggumay,

those wild orchids that bloom

only when all its leaves have fallen. 


This poem first appeared in Dagmay Literary Folio, Sun.Star Davao. June 26, 2016