Lines West: Found. Lost.

Found. Lost.

As known, the weight was a comfort,

each layer applied evenly,

smoothed with a mental spatula,

a near perfect fit, familiar.

Wildly proud of my rich clothing,

coat of family, cloak of kin,

I showed off my resplendent self,

flashing pictures, eager to say

here’s the hard proof of belonging,

faces, places, names, what we ate.

Later, as happens, it ended.

First, the scorch of volcanic grief

then chills, only one garment left me:

this holy threadbare longing.

— Barbara Ford

Originally printed in 
Common Ground Review


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