Nana’s Saltaire Blood

For      her      it had been    spools of wool       closed into      fists,
     knots of thread       pulled          so taut        against the skin
            you would                   mistake them            for blood clots.
Sometimes, watching                     her fingers curling
          back into their       tiny shells,              I’d think of how
  a seam                left open                     brings out the scars,
like the   yellow stain            sticking out                    of a neck fold. 

To keep one is       to improvise,
to mend spaces 
tightly with thread and            needle on skin.

Sometimes,           staggering          into a fabric shop
My fingers       will              stop,                 despite myself,
on the           erratic         linens, the peach         organza
            sprawled        like a pink bubble-gum                  sea,
      light textile      and                                     enough    bends
                                                                                       for a knot.

Sometimes,   I’m   swept into
manic fantasies
of wearing the sheer       tissue-like      textile
 into the            abdomen          of my palm,
   sweating        leather        wax, mouth
all feathery, and         sinking
                 like a sticky        sweet         stripe.

Sometimes,           I’d stare at      her  painful hands,
                big     on        shrunken wrists,      and know that
coarse wool         must run in her blood, or else              
            brocade,          sewn                        seamlessly.

© A.T. 2020