The quilt is ugly—
splashes of gingham and corduroy,
dull greens and grays,
an occasional daisy. Made of old clothes
my aunts and uncles wore,
a once-upon-a-time road
of cloth I follow with my fingers
on cold nights, nose and mouth held
to its tatted squares.
Remembering as though
these are my memories:
the boy pulling on
a shirt before school, the girl
on Sunday walking to church.
In the darkness
their dreams still close enough to taste,
something you never forget,
like the way, my grandmother told me,
an unripe persimmon turns
to cotton on the tongue.