by Kim Kelly


Unmended, yet reliable
As the plot points of romance
Turn ever to the sun,
This thread pulled in my cardigan
Is a vein of gold
Held up to the light
And settled on my shoulder.
Raised to my chin
Now and again
To catch some scent of days
Softened with age,
Even grief
Smeared into the sleeve,
Each awful cigarette,
Remains somehow
Just there, barely,
But enough to warn:
Don’t do that again.
Too many things to learn instead,
To feel through the rent:
My forever funny babies,
Buttons clicking against the bath;
My lover ever heroic,
Stretching the knit to tug me home;
My kiss ever more tender;
My laughter richer.
For what else should I want to leave
When I am gone?
Lay it under glass then
And hang it in a hall,
This old cardigan.