Cuffs

I still wear your shirts to sleep
except in August when I drift
naked, tofu in a cloud of Miso.

So tonight, I am widowed skin
against Egyptian
cotton, your stripes free to

cinch beneath my breasts, wedge
between my thighs, stroke just
near my clit

deterred by that tag.

That damn tag that jabs at my nape
like a telegraph message from
the war department,

I turn to yank
but I stop, for it is your name
stitched in fine black thread,
silk woven cobweb.

Stacey Z Lawrence teaches Poetry and Creative Writing in Maplewood, New Jersey. Her work can be seen in The Comstock Review, Street Light Press, Dream Noir, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine and others. She was both long- and shortlisted by Billy Collins for the Fish Poetry Prize 2019. She is the mother of two daughters and four cats.

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