The old woman

The old woman sits on the porch and sews.
She is sewing buttons onto her husband's shirt.
Her husband is gone now, but still she sews.
She speaks of him.
She says things I think an old woman should not say.
She speaks of the heavy, sensuous smell of his sweat,
Of the feel of his skin under her fingertips,
Of his lips,
She speaks often of his lips.
I am sitting there on the steps of the porch, blushing,
Watching her as she speaks.
She shines. She shines as she speaks of him,
And I listen, more envious than embarrassed,
Wishing that just once, the thought of someone
Could make my soul shine luminous under my skin, as hers does.