Anne French


A hank of her hair

When he found it
           it was the blaze that shocked him
           its red flare in the darkness,
its weight, like a body part
           an amputation
           a ripe fruit.
He sniffed it, expecting
           a feral stink
           the scent of her
           some kind of perfume
or perhaps all three.
Its mustiness recalled all the cupboards
           of all the houses they have ever lived in
           in several countries
and it inside them all along, wrapped and waiting
           for this moment.




Author’s Note


  <       Top       >