Lying down among the weaver’s yarns
in her studio, her core, next to her loom,
fabric, buttons, and spools, I held him.
In my twenties, I didn’t know age. He was old
and missed her. He spoke of her tenderly:
her dust kittens, how they made easy meals
so she could work at home. He took pleasure
in her art, and I knew he could feel pleasure
as I unbuttoned his wool sweater,
lifted his shirt over his head, the tiny scruff
of silver hair, the skin paper thin, smooth.
For many years now, he confided,
he couldn’t function as a man.
The house, earth tones, worn wood floors.
Merino, Icelandic, Mohair, I held him.
The warp and weft, the background
and the shine, I held him.
Something obsidian. He didn’t cry.
No kisses. We stroked each other.
I let the heat of my body warm his.
He pulled fingers through my hair,
the knots in my hair. By now,
were all the strands of her hair gone?