Weft
The cloth’s texture which rubs my flesh,
chafes my thighs, catches on a moist lip, a drowsy eyelash is yours. The weave
of affection, once so ordered and flat, so fit for purpose, is time-unraveled:
a Turin shroud
diligently laundered once too often. This once covered you took your form,
trapped your sighs, sipped sleep-shed…
Remittance Girl