Sonnet for Silk
I visit my market morning, noon, eve,
To look but not touch the vendor’s rich wares;
The fabrics, each roll and every sleeve,
And when I am done, leave secret despairs.
Then home I return to wonder and want
My old, threadbare, frayed rags be that fine silk;
So I scream in the silence, these b’haunt,
Spitting green flames at all not of my ilk.
I cry to the stars till my throat is mute
And see in the river myself alight;
I smother the flames and end the dispute,
And I see what lies beneath, just as bright.
Tatters like satin, the holes be their shine,
For within they hold stories, ours and mine.