me too

the longest strand i held too dear

lay in my arm

crooked and narrow.

sometimes i’d pull it out

and hold it to the light

where we could see if it matched other ends

with dripping dyes

or sun-swallowed pastels,

but every night,

i’d tuck it back

trying to rethread its pattern in my dreams.

you’d see the pieces strung up,

looped together,

stitched brightly on breast pockets,

and even some neatly lined on banquet tables

and still here,

me,

my thread,

hands clammy

and whispery nags about

fault and imperfections ,

nightly faded starts and chases.

so when ghost stories grew to unspoiled heights,

I shivered

and tossed the strand so steeped

that it soared,

smacked

the gravel, spitting

those few last words, wet

and hot

the last boiled bits of a tired trauma.