Fanny Howe: My name is Fanny Howe, and I’m going to read a poem I wrote for the standing sculpture, called the Widowed House. This one is number four in a set.
There is a little wall
In the world somewhere.
It’s made of wood and bone and air.
Three windows whose only view is you,
A pantry door, two bedposts,
Something light to wear
And a bridal watchfulness
In its design. This is a wall
You can slide in a cave or pickup truck.
A wall without flowers or fungus,
It’s still to the core.
It’s the way a widow would be after a terrible struggle.
It’s the way she would imagine
An altar to someone who disappeared.
Here she could sit
Look one way and pray.