Poetry Thursday - Coat by Jane Duran

New York by Stephen Wiltshire (via)

Coat

When it was bitter in New York City,
I would go out with my mother
past the icy buildings, stay

against her, just behind her
so she would stop the wind and snow,
and bury my face in her coat,

just there under her arm.
All winter, like her walk-in closet,
Its yellow light, I would walk into her,

Shake out my raw thoughts.
I didn't know who or what we were passing
or even if the city was still there,

the long radiant hairs against my face
like my grandmother's stole
with fox's head that lay on her breast,

me, clinging to my mortal mother,
our slow progress down that black, warm street.

 Jane Duran (via)

(found as a result of searching out the knitting poems)





 Jane Duran was born in Cuba to a Spanish father and an American mother. She was bought up in the USA and in Chile and after graduating from Cornell University she moved to England in 1966.

She has published four collections with Enitharmon Press.