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it was there and
then it wasn't, like
a miscarried baby,
an Abyssinian cat
always curled
against my neck
each night. It was
as warm, black
velvet, a trademark
in photographs
that go back ten
years. I took my
e-mail name from it.
It was a comfort,
it stretched as so
little does in my life
these days, held me
and moved with me.
It's smell is my smell,
faint blur of skin
and roses. There on
the shoulders of a
dark coat in the mall,
and like a lover you
expect to spend a life
time with, just when
I glanced away, just
and in a heart beat,
the way too many
losses happen
it was snagged,
gone for good
I pull it
on, crushed and
red as I've felt
all week as if
to brighten my
mood. Month of
holidays, always
depressing. the
opposite of how
when I'm down
blues gives a
glow. I wore this
warm velvet to
ballet, think how
it's older than
most of the other
dancers. Still in
style with slight
flared legs. When
I was their age,
maybe a little
older, I wore it to
the first dinner at
the artist retreat,
my cheeks almost
the same color
sitting across from
the famous novelist
who wrote so much
about sex. My skin
was flawless then,
my ass probably
visible under the
tops of the mini-tunic
I shortened to a
nearly invisible
length. I still have
it, I can wear it but
tho so much seemed
like an adventure
that summer, I'm
not looking for thrills,
just wear the pants
for warmth and comfort
I still expect it
on the rail near the
closet the way some
say they expect the
dead to suddenly
ask a cross word
puzzle question then
remember they
are gone. It was
there, this coldest
night, I bundled it
tighter walking
to the mall the way
a mother might
grasp a child
on the way from
the parking lot to
Macy's. I wasn't even
looking around,
just waiting
for someone else
to buy towels
but in minutes,
in a blink, a gasp
a breath some
one brushed against me
in a narrow aisle.
My mother always
said its not what you
worry about that gets
you, it's what you
never supposed. It was
not like losing the
thick black velvet in
ballet or on a
plane or falling into
a too crowded
train in Paris in the
same coat I wore last
night. It wasn't the mugger
you fear in a dark part
of town they tell
you not to go
in but as unobtrusively
as love becoming what
isn't love so sneakily
gone you never notice
what I loved was gone
Lyn Lifshin's recent prizewinning book, Before It's Light, was published winter 1999-2000 by Black Sparrow press, following their publication of Cold Comfort in 1997. Another Woman Who Looks Like Me is currently available from Black Sparrow-David Godine. Her poems have appeared in most literary and poetry magazines and she is the subject of an award winning documentary film, Lyn Lifshin: Not Made of Glass available from Women Make Movies. For more information, her web site is www.lynlifshin.com.