Pashmina

When I was cold I used to sneak
to your scarf box. I’d comb your collection,
select something that matched me
and then wrap it around my brass neck.

I would think of the Nepalese goat
that once wore this. I’d think of the hooves
tattling against the rockside of the
Himalayas. I’d hear the bleat
as I smoothed it down.

I’d think of you, and what you’d say
if you found me, acting the goat.
Trying to be you in miniature,
though I’ll always look more like Dad.

I’d leave, hoping you didn’t see me
in your expensive things. What you
never knew was the best of it,
the real reason for my theft.

Out in the wintry cold, I would catch
the zephyr of you. The only smell like it.
Distilled from years of embraces,
The only smell that still sustains.
I’d bury my nose. Breathe in deep.

Now I am old enough to buy myself
a pashmina if I want, but I won’t.
It won’t smell of you, blended from
cashmere and silk. It will smell of me.
I miss the warmth.