“Bind me,” you say.
“Wrap me up in
Mortal loves.”

She laughs and
Asks if you’ve mistaken her
For something else.
“I do not come in waves,”
She says,
“Only in lengths.”

You ask again and
Wheedle
(Just a little).
She concedes,
Cum caveat:
“I make no promises
Against revelation.”

And when, finally,
The thing,
Much yearned-for,
Makes its way to you,
You wear her love about you –
Prayers and sleepless nights,
Your mother
On your head
And hands -–
Until the day a hole appears.

A void of skin,
An end
To the endless softling wool
And the artifice of all emotion:
All, all
Is nothing but a length of string,
Hopelessly tangled,
Now cut through.

[Edgar Mason lives, for the moment, in western France with her family and a lot of books, yarn and bicycles. Her work has appeared in Basement Stories Magazine, Poor Mojo’s Almanac(k) and others. She blogs here.]