The Hold

The seam on this old coat is coming apart,

a loose thread near my beating heart.

It snags and pulls, a tiny break,

for goodness sake.

I think of needle, thread pulled taut,

a kind of mending, dearly bought.

A scar, you know, is just like this,

a ragged kiss.

Where things were split, then pulled to meet,

not perfectly, but bittersweet.

Held fast again, a careful line,

this fragile life of mine.