The Saddest Thing I Own

By Kimarlee Nguyen ‘08

in the pocket of her old coat, I stumbled upon the scent
of oolong tea, black gunpowder,
firecracker ash

there are three missing buttons, one that
I placed under my tongue, burning a secret
and a penny she stitched underneath
the lapel
money for a rainy day

a hole for callous thumbs
twiddling in evening’s calling
graces both sleeves and there’s
a tear at the elbow when the nettle
stung deep
stains at the hem where she sits, eating
orbs of berries
shimmering
blue

her mouth with no teeth and her
hair streaked with white
as she hobbled her way past

that fence that lined the yard, tiny soldiers
squatting in the fall chill-cold

her coat is the song we have
to remember her myth
- the waft and the weave
stringing us together

up: threads shaded with peppermint
and the cold harsh of winter’s
noon
down: her face, wrinkled, copying the earth
at rainfall
over: her pipe and its cracked metal
bowl, a smile
under: handfuls of dirt thrown over the soldiers that squat
in the fall chill-cold

As I close the rickety gate, hands holding onto
the scent of oolong tea, fake gunpowder and

the fall air that, like firecracker ash,
explodes on my tongue.

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