Craft

by Maeve McKenna

In crafting, a heavy settlement,
a cruel understanding.
Can you see from there? I murder
spiders by fear, cave regret
like a stain
left on my underwear.
I haven’t washed in days.
The tiles are too virginal,
floor non–slip.

Every month I begin a month.
Then, a blot of red exits
my functioned body. I am pinned
by the custody of the dying
who fail to live.
I dream of trees and elephants —
my hinterland —
their massive community. Who speaks
but the speaking?

Yesterday is a sewing box.
I gather the company of colour, stitch
green eyes, and brown, with needles
sharp as my eyelids. Your tongue I knit
pink as a young dogs.
I unravel wool, pull your name
from the loose threads of a blue mitten,
glue each letter to a blank sheet,
read you there.