Fabric
By Penny Boxall
In memoriam of CB
The week you went, I burnt a hole
in your latest Christmas scarf. I didn’t feel
the flame touch, and for a while
thought something had amassed there, until
I slipped a doubting finger, and recoiled.
And now will come the long unraveling
of all your gifts—the trusty socks and tea towels;
the cardigans; the rug you were in the middle
of knitting (at my request). It shall be gradual.
Everything, slowly, more hole than material.
Notes:
This poem is part of a portfolio of work on the occasion of Edwin Morgan’s centenary. Read the introduction by James McGonigal here.
Source: Poetry (July/August 2020)