Irish wool
Liz McClure
tonight I found a shop that smelled like my grandfather's arms
and so I stopped outside
as frantic shoppers pushed past me without feeling
the tweedy warmth
of tobacco and burning wood
rising to the moon's frozen crescent
thawing it with warm fragrant breath
until it rocked on its melting curve
like my grandfather's mahogany chair
where he sat with his pipe and cradled me
curled on his lap
sleepy from the sweet woodsmoke
from watching the quiet glow of smoldering cedar
while he told stories of Ireland and my grandmother
whose red hair blazed like embers
and now this pipe smoke wraps me as tightly
as gently as his arms
like the swaddling blanket of soft Irish wool
I still sleep with sometimes
the one he gave me before he got old and forgot my name
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