Poem by P. B. Helbest

Linens

pin-pricked, the shadow in my eyes,

fills up the shape of you and I,

I pour into you, that molten tide,

tilted so gentle, mercury in your mind

shear and ghosting, like long lost linens

threaded back together, with new fingers

I parse your strands, and weave-back once more,

I take back what’s mine, what was yours before

three shipments, and four, and five after that,

I count my spoils, my love, my regret,

I find myself lacking, of all but one,

all that is will be conquered, by my hand or none.