by Kathleen Kraft
when a stem rises from within— gratitude for wet fabric, grace of the simple chore. Amid bright leggings, underwear, the clatter of the restaurant rises across the street—I breathe in its buoyancy, move slowly in faith. Faith—sometimes damp, sometimes a clean fabric to stretch into. Can I speak of it—trace or tempt what shifts? My hands grow veinier year by year—I watch them move among heavy shapes, scattered prints that will lighten, dry—as will I— I am hanging up these soft containers of my days.
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