The Satin That Covers the Edge of the Blanket

Turn the hem around
your hand and
smell the smell of
sick-day comfort;
you are on the couch
once more, in gray
half-light where
somehow, your mother
is still alive,
has brought you
the threadbare yellow
blanket with orange
roses. Her name
has roses. Her hand
is soft as roses.
Her hand is the
satin that covers
the edge of the
blanket. It’s come
loose at one corner,
the stitching — if
you could crawl in,
between satin and
blanket, you’d be
in your mother’s
hand. You’d be
all right, then.

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