WHAT WE’VE SEWN

by ...

matt robinson

 

everything laid bare. the dog? blissfully unaware, padding through

some faded haze of dream, its indigo folds. your favourite levi’s,

lap splayed. crotch agog; in need of repair, redress. it’s saturday;

there’s coffee; it’s morning. and near two cups in, your back’s stitched

with the riveted hunch a november’s reticent, grey-scaled light asks

of fine effort like this. the day’s already confounded posturing, each next

thought a seaming. more patch, more dogged denial and thick-thumbed darn,

than original. a slack, frowzy derivative. and you know this, this

uneven arithmetic; the domestic tetris of each inner thigh, how each step is

both unspoken terror and vague hope, all at once. a knit-and-purl logic.

truth is, you only wish your worry unseemly. each breath: a thread weight,

drawn – upholstery’s thick gauge a knowing nod to coverings-up. this

is, at best, a juvenile failure. middle school fumbling. your uneven stabbing

a staccato sheet music for some psalm to the little-known saint

of dropped stitches, loose knots. suffice it to say you’ve pricked your numbed fingers,

but you’ve yet to draw blood. your pockets hold nothing but vague recollections

of clenched fists and chewed nails, the cotton a loose gauzy liminal

staunching some yet unseen wound. you wish, once again, you’d been as transparent;

understood what worked denim might proffer. about effort and fabric?

about honesty, about mending? no. about how fray serves as both verb and as noun.

sometimes, all at once.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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