My scarves remind me of...
My scarves remind me of scars
On Isadora's neck,
Of speeding cars…
Of cashmere, too,
So incredibly soft and warm,
And of the living creature
From which it was taken by force.
Of me, who nevertheless hungrily wears it…
Now, who am I exactly after that?
A craft-form I could never master
No matter who tried to teach me –
My mother, grandmother,
Two aunts and a cousin.
With its alien notion of beauty,
Of the half-starved who kneel before it,
Of its irresponsible adepts,
Who failed to remember their human duties.
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Comments about this poem (My scarves remind me of... by Anna Kirshenbaum )
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