Poetry

Threads

A thread of hair relaxed in her mouth,
and was carried along by voice.
It became a shadow. A child. A refugee
closely hidden within the motherly lungs of a jacket.
This was where I needed to be.
Gently painted into words –
moving like rain crawling through
the fire blind slits of her eyes in early November.
That night she wore her coat
as sealed and secure as a two handed hand shake.
Across the border, it lies beaten on the floor,
thrown to the ground with the sound of Jackson Pollock.
I am here. Staring at your coat.
Brushing hair from my tongue and thinking
you are left.

Lewis Haubus