Bandanna

Memory has a way of presenting itself
when one least suspects an appearance
 
Such as the bandanna I wore on his birthday
sitting outside on the phone while it eloped  
behind my back, down the curled branch of hair
into the waxing moon of a September Equinox
 
My throat thrown back in joyous birdsong
ignoring its gravity sliding down my spine
 
Survived steadfast eleven days she did
anchored deeply against the earth’s abdomen⁠—
winded coughs of rain, wild animals, strays
rooting about the place for sustenance
 
Cotton has this way of binding itself as skin
to whatever circumstance it’s thrown against
 
Whether virgin in the field, plucked by bleeding hands
stripped naked from its husk in the mill and spun;  
or, stretched thin on the factory rack to be sewn  
as a bandanna adorning a woman’s coiffure⁠
 
Cotton weathers the turbulent doubt of uncertainty⁠—
washes out like a single woman, strong and clean.  
~