Sometimes, making a shiva call
or after a funeral, you have seen them,
an elderly couple mourning
their oldest or perhaps middle child
(not speaking the kind of death), glancing
with a pin-pricked quizzical surprise
at the odd thing the other wears
on blouse or lapel (you can tell
how much effort it’s taken them
to put on clothes today, their hearts
being undressed, as they sit
uniformed on chairs)—that little extra
piece of clothing, the thin black ribbon
of customary bombazine, the tatter
neatly cut, not torn, their badge
of ruin flashing as if it were
the only stitch they wore.