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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