Snood
written by: Emma Wells
It laces,
coating as fleece;
I inhale woolly depths,
cocooning my head
in a memory wreath:
each woollen stitch
is a heartstring;
a pulsing placenta
coursing me back,
fumbling at the source.
I hold it closer
inhaling sepia syrup,
dust-soaked as tombs;
memories are upside down,
spinning, pivoting, melting
then wane…
Like lost lovers,
half-lives are torn here;
papery tassels tease,
licking the breeze
with upturned, bluish tongues.
Its roundness is a womb:
a cottony cocoon
nursing reflective muscles
twitching in pain;
slanted, skewed rejection twangs
like untuned guitar strings,
discordantly neon
on virgin pages.
Jagged pearly edges
swim like hacked shells,
iridescent in moonlight;
caressing celestial love
adds saintly sheen,
glossing mollusc, mermaid skin.
A cygnet swan loop;
tunnels of gold;
fringes of Egyptian queens;
Olympian circuit tracks
cushion minds
like styrofoam wrapping
or loft installation:
warping time, place, speaker;
paragraph divides don’t cut it,
leaving epic monologues
of unsaid words
that tour the globe
as a rotating 80s record –
scratched, marred
by lust-kissed lips;
smudges of truth
are jarring, squealing notes –
too high-pitched
for earthly eardrums.
I stand alone
in snow-topped fields
nudging woolly tundra
with an ice-tipped nose
as an Arctic explorer;
I nestle eiderdown warmth,
blurring sheets of endless ice…
…leading to cavernous depths…
precarious plummets…
pin-sharp drops…
to steal my breath.
- Poveglia - October 31, 2024
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