The cardigan is the color of oatmeal

The cardigan is the color of oatmeal,

pilled at the elbows,

hanging off her shoulders as if

they were made of wire.

When she reaches up to fix her frames,

the bone at the base of her throat

twitches.

A sudden, sharp movement

under the skin,

like a sparrow trapped in a curtain.

There is a little hollow there.

A cup for the light to settle in.

A small piece of gray lint

clings to the slope,

resting in the dip

of everything that holds her together.