The Hat
I
the yarn, atlantic-tinged blue
and sword-hilt gold
was born from her
crepe-plastered skin, trailing from
her fingernails like
silk woven from the clouds
II
patiently, the yarn unfurls from
her outstretched hands, stealing
silhouettes from the darkened house
the fragile strings tentatively quiver
take shape, a
glove for your thoughts
III
long toil in the depths of her room, she
trembles, desperately dismembers her life
and weaves it into each fiber
of yarn; the sphere diminishes like Father Time and
the hat flutters down from ashen hands
setttles on next of kin, like
a miserly ghost
IV
a line of curious succession--daughter ,
granddaughter, nephew, dog
the hat glides down from mind to mind like
an untamable thought and
the blues, they wear, and the golds,
they tear, unraveling like
the blinding light, thrusting out from
underneath the clouds
V
the fading strings rub the shadows of her
memory onto temples, foreheads, and
scarlet-kissed ears, stories of
crepe-plastered skin and an
abysmal dark corner, the
groaning rocking chair,
her life tarnished but not yet gone,
a quivering corpse of
atlantic blues
and heavenly golds