Widow Warriors
Pamela O'Hara
July 2021
The widow warrior knows a pain deeper than she should.
She guards it in her heart, careful not to let her cloud touch other people’s sunshine.
She sees the storm sooner, better, deeper. She brings an umbrella.
Surviving a tempest, she stands beaming her light from the shore, sending the ignorant sailors away to fret their tangled lines rather than smash their delicate bones.
She does not envy the heedless crew. She protects them.
Her journey is not alone.
Grief injects a pigment particle deep into her skin writing the songs that pierce her heart all over her body. Only other warriors can see it.
Theirs is a language not spoken, but felt.
They move together while standing alone.
They laugh pain. They cry hope.
They spot joy in the tiny shards of life only visible through the eyes of anguish.
The widow warrior mends the way for those too frayed to follow.
And sometimes she’s a he.
She guards it in her heart, careful not to let her cloud touch other people’s sunshine.
She sees the storm sooner, better, deeper. She brings an umbrella.
Surviving a tempest, she stands beaming her light from the shore, sending the ignorant sailors away to fret their tangled lines rather than smash their delicate bones.
She does not envy the heedless crew. She protects them.
Her journey is not alone.
Grief injects a pigment particle deep into her skin writing the songs that pierce her heart all over her body. Only other warriors can see it.
Theirs is a language not spoken, but felt.
They move together while standing alone.
They laugh pain. They cry hope.
They spot joy in the tiny shards of life only visible through the eyes of anguish.
The widow warrior mends the way for those too frayed to follow.
And sometimes she’s a he.
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