The Hospitality of War
I hold myself as if I am raw silk—a slender shadow— hand folding the soft blue cloth, then unfolding a still composure. I curve the back of my hand to shape myself into a sparer mean. What will become of me—my beauty, my howling hurt, my pilgrim notes? It has rained for days. The door sticks in the damp. I set the table with pink peony. Flinched & careful, make a code for stitching Flaw.