Snakeskin sloughed off, sewn into shirts,
Salted with the spray of the spreading seas.
Soaked with the stale sweat of a searching son
I am the signature stamp of stealth,
The source of stained secrecy.
The strained suit of a stalker
Spread across soul-clutching fists,
A sibling’s stark sorrow.
What am I?
* * *
You got it already? I knew you would. It’s the fine-spun tunic endowed to Joseph by his father Jacob as the tangible manifestation of fatherly favoritism.
