Changing House

Thomas MacIntyre
Last chest. last drawer,
a lock of woman's hair. Her very colour, sheen, blonde brought up on sun. T est the strands, brittle something, sapless, stagey. Smell, as you often did, gulp now, gulp your fill. Sandalwood of the drawer.
Look at it again,
light on your palm.
Finders -
Keepers -
Soundlessly, the plastic bag takes it at one go.
Page 49, Poetry Ireland Review Issue 26