It kept her inside the workshop, the only noise, a sewing machine quietly purring like an old moody cat. Spools of threads closed into fists, Fingers curling back into their tiny shells.
She places a piece of cloth on the table, The open seams sticking out like the yellow stains of a neck fold. An old worn out shirt with little holes filled with imaginary garden trolls. The smell of moth ***** seeping out. Curling her lips like a slug with a pinch of salt, A hesitant hand moves deliberately as if feeling the roughness of a warty toad. To keep one is to improvise, to mend spaces tightly with thread and needle on skin.
She will say to herself: “I will keep him close” Her little lover’s shirt on her small bruised frame. chipped, she will drink liquor bitter. She will drink it long and drink it deep.
November 2014
For L.M. Pieced out from an old 2009 draft Confessional but not Personal