After retiring from 22 years at Ripon College, I have moved to the Berkshires with my husband and two spaniels. While I miss my students, colleagues, prairie walks, and skies filled with sandhill cranes, I am nourished by the beauty of the mountains every time I walk up the road or take a drive. Co-editor (with David Graham) of After Confession: Poetry as Autobiography (Graywolf), my most recent publications include Cooking With The Muse (Tupelo), SoFloPoJo, One, and Crab Orchard Review.
Consider this fabric’s synthetic blue sheen,
its half-sister luster a fitting way to elegize
our shared mother cloth. Chosen to glamorize
clichéd cotton button-downs, it hangs pristine
in cave light, the low cut v-neck still a surprise
each spring. While all her gifts contain white lies
they comfort with finesse. Take this pashmina
shawl so akin to true cashmere, it reasserts
a wintry sibling plush between us to gather
for warmth. And this bosomy birthday blouse
worn once, tag torn ragged in fits and starts
with moody blood love? I could never bear
the Goodwill bag. Faux silk fills my house.
© 2018 Kate Sontag
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF