Scarlet Thread

A scarlet thread
burns long, thin,
intersecting Sunday
and the corner
of my heart–
hungry for red.

I know the thread,
the very one—
pulls me to the cross,
unfolds like silk.
I pull string taut,
tie knot
so needle won’t slip.

A few crimson threads
fall to the floor,
and taste the hunger
of belonging.
Scarlet wounds are not sealed
with simply a stitch.

If the button did not fall,
slip out of the pocket,
get lost on a Sunday,
I’d still be searching.

Can I say what is mine
and what is yours?
Can you tell me where
the scarlet thread ends?

A coat of crimson
covers me, covers you,
swathed with scarlet thread.

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Prasanta Verma, a poet, writer, and artist, is a member of The Contemplative Writer team. Born under an Asian sun, raised in the Appalachian foothills, Prasanta currently lives in the Midwest, is a mom of three, and also coaches high school debate. You can find her on Twitter @VermaPrasanta, Instagram prasanta_v_writer, and at her website: https://pathoftreasure.wordpress.com/.