Letting Go

for Sheila

Douglas W. Gray

Snagged in woods or too much freight
I frisk the Barbour you stitched,
shrug out a hug of our past.

My canvas bag unzips
to packed with a purl of the heart —
buttoned up, a fold of shirts,

socks paired to wool maracas,
creases, seams and briefs;
intimate denim, like flesh.

I'm into your fragrance
my pristine lover and pillow my cheek
in this chair, seeking words

for unthinkable loss, fixed at the bulb
ripping holes in my brain while naked
at the vestige of your touch.