Stitchwork

Where did the fabrics come from? Peonies
on a clover wash, found at the cluttered estate
of a dead man who’d dealt in silver. Tangerine felt
bought with a woman who’d offered me her life.
Nothing. Nowhere. I press together the faces
of the scraps, align edges to sew the seam that,
if done correctly, will never show, as is the way
with time, the story. Twice I sew a seam
all while I know it will be snipped in two.
I sew like this for hours: loves I sloughed off
like a wool, things bought and sold, friends
who perished early. Mornings I wake in the dark
having barely escaped some routine horror,
the fear of which has pickled my heart
with brilliant dye. I taught myself to sew, I think,