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,
stitched brightly on breast pockets,
and even some neatly lined on banquet tables
and still here,
and whispery nags about
fault and imperfections ,
nightly faded starts and chases.
so when ghost stories grew to unspoiled heights,
and tossed the strand so steeped
that it soared,
the gravel, spitting
those few last words, wet
the last boiled bits of a tired trauma.