mercredi 4 février 2009

215. A surfeit of scarves

There is the blue-and-purple one
that my best friend brought back from India
still smelling strange and dusty
after three washes

Also there is the black cable-knit one
all thin and long and stretchy
that I can wrap thrice around my neck

Not to forget the sheep fur one
that I don't wear too often
on account of the self-consciousness, and the fact that
the long frizzly hair tickles my chin
and gets stuck in my lipstick

There is the violet-coloured one
familiar, soft and slouchy like a well-worn T-shirt

but no match for
the black one I brought from Tibet
so fine that, like fairy cloth,
it could pass through a golden ring
and that I lost, and still mourn a little

Finally there is the big grey one, for prestige
because it is cashmere, and from Mongolia
my favourite right now
the one that smells like me
that protects me in the cold and the smoke and the stinks of the city

and yet
every morning it's the same
I can't find the one I need

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