I used to fit
snug tight in your wool-lined pocket.
You were sorry
about anything that snuck in—change, lint, rain.
I tried to pick at the fabric, anything to see you better,
but you told me to relax.
You stopped reaching in as if our touch
would burn.
A gloved hand scooped
me out
and set me down on snow, trying to be soft
in the abandonment.
I thought you’d be quick about leaving
but I still hear the crunch
crunch
crunching of your feet, slow.
You look up at the moon
like you’ll find meaning there
and I pretend
you look for us,
the way we were before,
but I had you all wrong,
with your pastel orange nails
and soft cardigans—
you wanted to be a sheep
but you howl.
I howl back.
Emily Lacey’s poetry has appeared in The Bluebird Word, Evening Street Review, Medical Literary Messenger, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA in creative writing from Solstice’s MFA program at Pine Manor College.
