"sharp edges"

heavy.
does pain work like pickle,
wrapping its rawness in
salt on wound preservative,
waiting for years to be palatable?

numb.
does it fade like aging memory,
uncertain of its own moorings,
waiting for validation impossible
except in rankling deja vu?

iridescent.
perhaps it stays. the scent of mother
on her clothes, enduring in generosity,
despite tumbles of life and wash cycles,
soft and comforting. home.

a feather's touch that cracks a glass.
papercut.