Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts

Red Sweater

by Kathleen Hellen

Every fall
you’re plucked out of the spiders,
quiet as a moth,

nyloned like a war stocking,
V-necked to imitate a crayon drawing
of a bird breasting hills, chirping

to a migrant expectation. Washed
but never fading, worn warm,
or hiding among the other

warrened sweaters in the drawer,
other garments ribbed
in factories I might deplore

but every spring
I fold into your silence.