The Matriarch

You in your bounty—your hair scented gray— Walked tall among petunias and your boys. Slender, Bible-quoting, you had your say On wars and marriage vows and proper toys For grandchildren.

When you family-prayed on Sunday nights—

The living room a crowd of things to do— Each prudely solemn word defined your rights. Tense wives cursed the scent of lavender, and the blue You wore. But you ignored any narrowed eye Which sparkled out against the truths you made.

Good woman: boys get bored, petunias seed, we die. You did, holding tight to things that fade. At your grave, veiled wives stood rigid, wanting to know Why their glad husbands wept to see you go.