Poem: in apartment b16

I throw you as I hear the widow cry
beneath us. I imagine
her to have a veil of make-up running
down her face, or maybe she is bent
in the shadow
of a crucifix or a sun catcher,
starving for some light.

I heard she once went bicycling
over the dry dirt
roads of Italy, and chased the man
she loved into a private
landing.

Then in Boston, or New Haven,
she would laugh, throwing
her stockings to the wind
as she watched them parachute
down where the children
played.

They would smile ,
and life would begin.

But, really, as we drag and pull, she
is gone. She has moved past Amber
Street, and has taken
to baking breads,
and holding them
in her arms
as she once held
her children.