Voodoo socks

Jill Jambor
Contributor
Again we met in consciousness, aware
of ties that I’ve not yet the heart to break.
The Voodoo’s curse has worked. I’m cold and bare;
all but one of your possessions did you take.
Your dank and putrid soles caress my feet.
I’ve cleansed these socks until my hands went raw
but still one drop of blood does not unweave:
the fibers hold it close on cotton claws.
The bearing of this drop’s a mighty thing,
like mast and sail that balance on a coin.
In bed between the lull and rise we sink
into the dark reins of sleep as one.
And so, these socks are all I’ve left to mend