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The last six pack you bought
I find at the back of the fridge,
two cans short. Drunk that day in the garden
when you taught me how to play cat’s cradle.
Wove a web between your hands from a loop
made out of our laces. Passed back
and forth, the pattern evolving
with each hook and twist of our fingers.
At times left to hang slack from your hands
or mine as one of us drained a can
or I leant back against your leg, my shoes
floating loose around my feet. Turned
to reach through the afternoon haze,
angle my hands between yours, take up
the waft and weave of web and conversation.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Since you’ve gone I have become the weather
melting like rain on window panes until
I can no longer taste the salt.
Leave the house with my practical blue sky smile
to deliver your belongings to charities and friends.
Your shoes went to Oxfam without their laces.
I step into their loop, dip then raise my head
to feel their groove on the nape of my neck.
Lines of lace writing a web over my skin
as I hook and twist my limbs.
Your fingers tightening as I lose my grip.