Threads
By Bernadette Anderson
For Tim
Small coils of fibres,
snake like, lying
on the bathroom floor.
Sometimes in a heap of knotted cotton
on your bedroom tiles.
Always on, under and around your desk.
Pick. Pick. Pick.
Strings of anxiety.
I follow a tail of blue and black strands
to pants without legs,
shirts without arms.
Blankets and sheets
with hems undone.
More clothing to buy.
More linen to replace.
I toss the thread in the bin,
when all I really wish
is to be able to connect those threads
and put you
back together.

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