The widow

gods,
little g,
stupid
wannabe
deities;
you
are
stardust,
mantle
crust,
mixed,
stirred,
flush
with
little
rivers
of
blood.
you
look
for
love
thrug
windows,
eaten
by
her
black holes;
but
remember
the
widow’s
made
of
dried
mud,
too.