April 26, 2018

The Sweater

By Kat Myrman

The Sweater

Sometimes I wrap myself in thin
green, shetland, stiff with age, smelling
of moth balls and stale dust,
to remember. It’s all I have left
of you…a sweater that’s starting to
unravel along the edges. Like you,
those final years, unraveling,
spiraling into an abyss so deep,
none of us could have saved you.
I know that now. It’s strange.
Your sweater, just an old wooly
rag really, hints of Old Spice
aftershave wafting, when I press my
face into its course, wiry fibers, has
saved me from the edge more
than a few times. I guess that’s why
I can’t part with it.
I suppose I never will.

~kat

For NaPoWriMo 2018 Day 26. Prompt: write a poem that includes images that engage all five senses.

This entry was posted on Thursday, April 26th, 2018 at 7:56 pm and tagged with , , , , and posted in Challenges and Writing Prompts, free verse, Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.

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