a little worn and holy

Belinda-Broughton-handbag

a needle darn
a little fabric patch
I pull
at a taut thread
with my life

how I would
guide my mother
my arm in hers
across the uneven surface
of frailty

the glory
of this bouquet
is nothing
but the scent
of dry petals

my daughter
when did she
grow up enough
to slip her arm
through mine

half naked
in an ageing body
I am aware
of my granddaughter’s
curious eyes

no longer drunk
I wake from a dream
already forgotten
the imprint of fabric
on my skin

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