Each time I start again
I find the seam,
spread the fabric wide

match the pattern
with my eyes and my scissors,
carry on.

The needle is quiet
sometimes it sounds like a patter,
sometimes, a smear.

Once it was a carving
the whole story the length of a blade-
you have seen the greats who weave from stone,
do not tell me you never tried to touch that silk.

Once I climbed it,
all the way up to darn the hole I had forgotten
though I should not have trusted my weight
to a ripped and rent thing.

But I am an expert,
with needles sunk in my skin
and patterns writ on my eyelids

watch me unravel,
and make anew.

This poem previously appeared in Polar Borealis Issue 6 in April 2018.



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