All Clear    by  Marge Piercy

Loss is also clearance.
Emptiness is also receptivity.
No, I cannot pretend:
the cells of my body lack you
and keen their specific hunger.
Yet, a low yellow sun slants over this bleak landscape
a burning kite caught in the branches.
There is a lightness in me, the absence
of the weight of your judgement
bearing on my nape,
the slow stain of your judgement
rusting the moment.
I go out with empty hands
and women touch me, casually, while we talk.
The words, the problems, the sharp faces
jostle like winter birds at a feeding station
although the crumpled fields look deserted.
I stroll in the cold gelid morning.

When it becomes clear I am not replacing you
don't think it is primarily
because you cannot be replaced.
Consider that I am taking pleasure
in space, visited but unoccupied
for every man I have loved
was like an army.

© Marge Piercy