New Day Darning

                                                                                                                            

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.