Poem 87

an ode to a dear friend.




We began our lives together with a quilt
and while I would have preferred blue you
chose red. So we compromise, somewhere in the middle
somewhere between crimson and navy is
plum feeling misunderstood and oily around the edges.
When patchwork quilting disagreements, one must see through fish eyes,
with me always searching for something blue, your brow red as ever.
And then you left, slamming the door behind you… not for a bed of mine
Which just leaves…
Sewing.
Sewing the pieces back together. Sewing might make sense of…
Sewing.
…troubled by the incongruence.
…but somewhere in the middle.
No. The
            ——needle——-
                                        The needle meets them in the middle.  
And pricks me with tricks in the light, silver-sliver sliding slender through sight-lines.
Forget the thimble. The needle and I will make peace of this.
The needle sews patches, not compromises.
            …these are the last few words
                        …I am troubled by how easily a needle slips through…
                                  Sewing…. sewing…… sewing………
…sewing, sewing, smalltalking the smirking stitches. clumsy. cataract cloth:
                                    It is the needle.
                                                Stitches from the needle
                                                            Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
                                                                        stitches…. playfighting and pillowtalk. The needle.
The needle, not you:
You, whiskey wandering through pigeon park benches.
Tasting justification. Trusting judgments.
                        Oh if I could drop a needle in your Tanqueray tonic.
                                                And use the quilt my needle made to keep me warm at night.
                                                                                                                                               –ECW