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A Silk Carpet

I felt sorry for the Chinese silk rug
rolled up and stored in my ex-wife’s attic.
We bought it in Jiangsu Province
when the threads of our lives together
were already fraying.
The dog peed on it
so we kept the dog and hid the carpet.

The rug came to me in a dream;
we were lovers that silk mat and I.
The elegant fingers that wove it
had conferred upon it it’s gentle femininity.

We danced together in a moonlit attic.
Later she showed me again
her delicate embroidery, the rosy cranes, 
the extravagant flounce of her chrysanthemums,
the laughing mushroom headed lions,
even the swastika symbols around its edges,
the signs are spiritual and ancient
and  could never be sullied by maniacs.

She revealed to me the fading yellow stain 
across her waist.
She has forgiven the dog 
but typically for her gender 
she has not altogether forgiven me.

Perhaps we kissed and made up,
I can’t tell, I woke up suddenly,
the cat had coughed up a fur ball
on the bed.
The silk rug was laughing,
I knew it,
I just knew it.


Copyright © Eric Ashford

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