January 3

Forget the hay. I woke up shaved, bald with sweat
from knees to neck: back, pubes, pits, wrists, lip. All shorn.
Thread stole from brow and small toe, spun to a gold-red

wire weaved to a shawl. Unhired
hands plucked each piece from me, crafted and
knit this cape, this cowl. Mauled, I sit
cold, tug corners I can hold.

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