You are the fold my scarf makes when it falls

You are the fold
my scarf makes
when it falls
across the chair
as I undress. My pulse

was a string your voice
picked. I bared
my throat. You exposed
a voice. I knitted
a shield. You are gone.

But crimson holds
a fold on a chair
as warm as the winter
thread that I wove.
Now a quaver

sustains the taut
thing of this voice when
soft on my throat
is the paw
of your leaving.


Anne Elvey (Victoria)