poem for cwpa 453

I threw string at a neighbor to stop her move.

she didn’t unpack the van. it’s been a mantra of mine, cross-tying scenes.

i used to use strings that i found in a drawer.

i pulled my grandmother’s in-table out and i got them.

there were tons: blue string, ribbon string, binding string, strap string, over shoelace patterned paper that she’d stuck to imbue.

no one hooked things among my mother’s mothers. we didn’t fasten buttons

and there weren’t knots that couldn’t be untied.

when i went to the store for jackets, i picked those with brass shank buttons,

but i didn’t cry when they fell off, and i didn’t notice.

my friend moved and my mother described it-

“it’s like a string that someone’s cut, it tied you two close.”

i thought of that later

and how i didn’t feel it again, but was expecting- with friends, boyfriends

who i forgot when the scenes changed.

when i was 23 i moved to baltimore

i came with two sweaters and four long pants.

after april came, i searched the wool counters for thick and bulky and ruminating silk.

i wasn’t going to be cold like that again. in florida i’d been tied to things, the purple birds of paradise plunked into driveways,

the whitelaw in miami where sam and i ran out of checks.

i moved north to get so far up.

i thought I’d be better wound up, twists on christmases- clingy dates and then improved new ones.

i wanted it to snow, or maybe be summer

with the quarry on a sunday, or up the slope hill towards Taney. maybe it’s this way with

nature, waiting for the empirical delays to finally wrap you up.

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