Each night when the moon climbs full into the dark sky
I throw off my ancient veil and pull the box from under my bed.
Neatly folded clothes of my deceased husband fill the box.
My children think I keep them for remembering.
In fact they are keys to freedom,

freedom finally attained by an old woman.
My breasts, always small to begin with,

lay exhausted and flat on the brittle cage that holds my beating heart.

A near toothless grin and shorn gray hair assure no amorous interest.
The house is quiet and keeps secrets; I transform into him and carefully exit the window.
On the street I boldly meet the gaze of other men.

They look away in respect of an elder,

of a better.