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IRISH SWEATER

I wear it rarely,
the Irish sweater
our friend’s aunt
made for me,

your Christmas gift.

We’ve lost touch
with him, his wife.

The years creep on.

It’s cold this winter,
but I’m warm
in the sweater,

remembering,

the patterned knit
is sometimes
all that’s left
to identify fishermen
pulled from frigid water.

Lineage:

woven blood,
from which
we came.

 

by Scott Condon



 
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