In my mind
I can see a hand
stitching, like my grandmother's,
her weary eyes squinting
in concentrated effort.
The thimble makes the slightest
yet completely satisfying
*tink*
rhythmically against the needle’s eye.
I fear there’s not enough line to finish
and there will be one too many knots
and stops and starts and tired tired tired.
Yet the thread pirouettes,
reversing with the same planted spaces,
familiar X patterning coming to roost
along the hopeless halves of a torn dream
surgically reuniting
whether they like it or not.
In my mind
I have the power…
my grandmother's chalky bones
scattered somewhere,
gathering
into an intravenous potion
injectable through that needle
darning a broken heart
that will not mend.
