I’ve taken to pinning patterns on your bedroom floor
where we dragged the sweating moon.
Practical astronomy—our seam allowances
smaller than a sewing needle’s eye. Above us, the ceiling strewn with flowers
cut from the leftover wallpaper of another room.
If you can’t dampen your grief,
what will keep your fingers from being lured
under the needle in sleep, from the bared teeth
of the feed dog gathering up fabric in the wake
of our hands? Remember—one stitch fired
per footfall means fewer discarded suits.
If you can’t forgive your scissors—chalk this constellation overhead: the long arm
of the machine where we turn & turn again the whole body of your future
About heirlooms, you know what they say— + We will have to split one
needle / this winter—one end for me, / one end for air. +
How we make do and mend is not always fair.
Copyright © 2020 Cori A. Winrock
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Alice James Books.