The Shiksa Wakes

She turns her head,
walks past the mirror.
She could have draped it,
used one of the scarves he brought home
from Paris last spring. His favorite--
navy silk with cream fleur-de-lis.
Pride straightens her spine,
smooths the short black dress.
He chose her
blond and fair.
She dares her reflection to deny it.
Knows he has been mourned already.
Twice dead.