The Unspeakable Cruelty of the Left Hand

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Finding your scarf, I recalled [telling you twenty percent
of people die of cancer. Amazed, you asked

what percent of people die—like you
could only measure sorrow (within the width

of its loom. When I first met you I knew I must begin
to practice for grief, its unspooled margins. My scarf

always ended too soon to warm both our necks,
so I asked you) to hold on to it. Filled with fire

these days, in the legacy of remembered things, would you
consume the living with your lack of needing?

What I am] asking is really a favor. What I am
asking you is: would you still like to keep it, where

you are, or all the scarves now good enough?

Bianca Lucarelli