Across my hands, I lay:
my great aunt’s crocheted brassiere, sewn herself. So narrow, it could be made for a child — linen and air, and a lone silver hook. And so delicate.
If I drop it, I am certain:
It will unravel and float up from the floor, then vanish out the window into the night — undoing its knots to lay its threads over a stand of silently ascending trees.