Susan Wicks
Silk
I catch sight of it in a window,
a small black velvet bag
with butterflies, one blue, one purple,
settled there just for a moment
with open wings.
I’m not the kind of woman
to go out clutching black velvet,
but suddenly I wanted to buy it
for my daughter, my younger self –
a fold of dark, a detached pocket
that would hold only what was necessary
and then take flight,
something that would stay close to her
as she danced,
something with a silk lining
that would keep her comb, her mirror,
her ticket home,
all night till the sun came up
and smell of lavender.
Page(s) 78
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