The Surgeon’s Widow

by Vicki Feaver

I dug all night in the company
of moths — drawn from the dark
to the bright beam of my torch —
recovering first his skull, last,
the phalanges of his toes,
Finally, at dawn, my bag full,
I carried my husband home.

Laying his bones, damp and cold
from the grave, on a rug
by the fire, I found a drill,
pliers, and a coil of wire.
Aided by the diagrams
in his anatomy books,
I reassembled his gaunt frame.

The night of our wedding,
he’d swung me off my feet,
waltzing me from room to room
before carrying me up to bed.
Now, I held him and danced
the same route, stumbling,
almost falling on the stairs.

Once we made love in the bath.
Now, I lifted him gently
into the tub and washed him
like a muddy child,
scrubbing with a nailbrush
at green and amber stains
in the porous bones.

His hands, I left until last —
soaping fingers, famous
for their delicate skill,
with my fingers, crooked
and clumsy with arthritis.
Finally, rinsing off grey suds,
I dried him with a warm towel.

I slept as before his death:
his knees slotted into the crook
of my knees, my buttocks
cradled by his pelvis,
my head on the pillow
beside his, dreaming
of his breath on my neck.