Sunday, October 28, 2007


In her rocker she sits
a welcomed break from her daily stitching
grasping her mug again and again she talks
a reservoir of tears
dammed by lower lashes

Against the heating pad she rests
steeping her pains as she steeps her tea
perhaps thinking of a younger time
days of cooking, farming, doll clothes making
before the accident, the war and all the heartbreak

In sandpaper tones she speaks
the ache in her back, the nation, the sadness of the future,
illegal immigration, our worlds obsession with oil
milk in her tea swirling white as Europe
Lecturing should have's, ought to's and next times

Her affections run parallel to the criticism in her plaid
blue always comes after red
and the sting that accompanies failure paralyzes
like the stitches of her fine sewing

With seam ripper I sit, breaking threads
unwilling to be coerced into a form that longs
to be something else
not a sleeve or an inseam or reinforced pocket corner

Tea and time consumed, she returns to her sewing
the familiar vibration of the presser foot
manipulating fabric and form
delighting her perfectionistic ache


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