In my pocket
sits a hair all curled up
nested between a layer of denim
two layers of lighter cloth
and warmed by my own
upper thigh
Curled there with lint,
gum wrapper, odd-sized unfamiliar coins,
cigarette box-top clear paper,
remnants of skin from hands in my pockets,
a fingernail not meant to drop
in the house of a friend…
the end of a pen.
I wear my jeans for weeks on end
until the jeans have a certain fit—too big
or the crotch faintly has a
female smell from monthly visits
and toilets with no paper.
And there I am
wet from November rain
from Sint-Lukas to Brussels North
slightly shaken/shaking
wishing I were home…
Love song on the radio headphones
and a whistler
same-o-same-o
hands in my pocket—dirty jeans
and a hair emerges.
Curled up and keeping to itself
but now between my
thumb and forefinger.
Emerges untangled—a line from my pocket
cell upon cell of you.
Before we knew each other perhaps.
Or “knew” before we “know” now.
Overshadowing the wet and the cold
the temperature I must multiply
and divide to understand myself.
You.
I will save in every way possible.
And as truth would have it,
you are saving me too.
