Oxter she called it, that space
between her chest and bicep, nooked-
out for me. Her elbow rocked, her fingers
tight at the working yarn as a pink ball
bumped its way across the floor, stirred
by its undoing.
As it leaves the ground,
rebuilding itself in her fingers,
caught like a fledgling from the air,
her hands come together in worship,
neatening me into a scarf.