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i’m crocheting a little friend
a stingray
out of teal and white yarn i am spinning him
he is tighly woven and
thinly drawn

and his eyes are stitched of black yarn woven into sloppy crosses
i don’t know if i’ll keep my little friend once he is complete
he is something that should be given away
to someone who needs his soft company more than i
i could make a thousand stingrays once i understand the pattern
but in giving him away he would be
someone’s only stingray
and i think everyone should have
a soft tightly wound sea creature
at least once in their lives
b e mccomb Apr 2018
the process of crocheting an
afghan is about just that
the process

you make an afghan looking
forward to the nights you will
curl up under it and relishing
the way it fits over your
legs when it's halfway finished

or thinking and hoping
how much someone you love
will love and appreciate
your gift of time and callouses

weaving a container for whatever
emotions you need contained

i realized this that first winter
deep in february when i began
my long nights of scrap yarn
desperately trying to piece
something together out of
the not knowing why
i told myself that this was it
the sum total of my works
the item they would fold up and
place on the table next to the jar
of my ashes come september
and it was done by march

a slow and roundabout way
of pushing myself through
the suicidal smog
smeared through my mind

my friends had blankets wrapped
around them that bright morning
of the anniversary we all cried together
my tears falling on my afghan

i made them each an afghan
plus a few more
always pushing myself
to look forward

lost count of how
much yarn i used
how many stitches
passed through my hands

but by the time the next
march came around i
had made or charted
out five more

to fill the void
clawing at my insides

spent a year making
myself another
in tight ripples of
time and television

and now
my fingers
slow
and stop

seven afghans
in two years
is an accomplishment
that might send the
head of even the
highest caliber of
grandma spinning

i have no more afghans
left in me to make

so instead i crawl
down into bed
two i made
two from friends
and one from
my mother

and lie
head pounding
eyes puffy
void of energy
in the space
between my afghans
copyright 4/20/18 b. e. mccomb
b e mccomb Jan 2017
it looks like a
striped afghan
but now i'm on
the fourth or so
to me it's just
another set of nights

i'm in stitches
wound and
pulled to hold
me together

three seasons of
hogan's heroes
the first season of
mash (twice)
hair bleached
plus the dog
and three cats
several candles

i'm trying to
keep it together
but it's hard
because every day
is more of why
i can't get it together

pull the string of
emotions together
and let the obsessive
paranoia continue

i don't cry
i stitch.
Copyright 1/17/17 by B. E. McComb
while i love crochet i'm 97% sure it's mostly just a coping mechanism.
b e mccomb Sep 2016
lonely autumn nights
blisters and calluses
forming on my stiff
cold hands

(pure cotton
is forgiving of
hasty tendencies
or picky forms)


wrapped and wound
tightly around my fingers
every loop an attempt
at controlling chaos

(thinking about
how i'm not
an outcast and
i never was)


i'm the shoe in the pair
that is slightly too tight
on the one foot that's a
bit larger than the other

or the shirt that you
keep wearing for years
because it fits but you
don't really like it

i am the paint on your
windowframe that's just
fine except for the white
flecks it left on the glass

(i've never been
an outcast
i've always been
different?)


i don't like to say
i'm different because
we're all different
i was just different
enough to be a slight
nuisance or distraction

i apologize too much
for what's not my fault
and too little for what i
should take ownership of


*(something about my personality
maybe just misplaced anxiety
dictates that all things must be
stacked and aligned perfectly.)
Copyright 9/24/16 by B. E. McComb
PrttyBrd Nov 2014
It turned cold quickly
Almost skipping Autumn
Reluctant to wear a jacket
Or a hat, or gloves
Too distant for my arms
To keep him warm against my chest
He said he never wore a scarf
But if he did, he would go Dr. Who style
I had to laugh as i looked up the reference
Fifteen feet of mismatched stripes
Maybe not the stripes, he said
I happened upon a huge skein of yarn
It felt like a warm blanket in the oddest,
Most interesting colors
Manly, neutral, and perfect for Fall
So i crocheted a scarf and pictured him warm
The pattern in those colors was a mess
I chuckled at why they would make such an ugly pattern
I crocheted every stitch with love
Through arthritic hands that felt no pain
I crocheted a scarf, stopping only when it dragged the floor when i put it on
Two feet short, but ridiculously long
I bordered it in shades of green to match
Not realizing it was variegated into Brown's and maroons along the way
But it matched the odd mix of colors
And finally made it almost pretty to me
I covered myself in perfume
And put it around my neck
As I turned I caught a glimpse in the mirror
It wasn't a horrible amalgamation of hideous colors
It was camouflage, with a matching border
I laughed so hard, and felt so bad
My hillbilly in camouflage
Wearing a scarf way too long
Maybe he would hate it
Maybe he won't wear it
I knew better
So, I packed up his bag of gifts
And sent it to the frozen mountains
He never wore a scarf
He opened it and put it on
It smells like You, he said in blssful remembrances
It's definitely camouflage, he laughed
It's perfect baby, I'll wear it whenever it's cold
And in the picture he sent
I saw its beauty
It wasn't in the patterns of crisscrossing colors
It wasn't in the accidental way
The border perfectly complimented the body
It wasn't in the fact that he would be able
To wrap himself up in me to stay warm
It was in that picture
It was the joy that filled his smile
It was in his eyes that danced in love
It was in the fact that he believes
Because i made it, it's perfect
Yes, i accidentally crocheted a thirteen foot camouflage scarf
And he loves that I can keep him warm.
11414
Serenity Elliot Sep 2014
I wish that I could crochet in the bath.
I would lie a board across the ledges, if I had one long enough
As my fingers intertwined in the soft wool
Little water droplets would settle
Like frozen tears of glass.
That would just be for a moment, before it grew heavy
and sodden.
I've read like that before,
the pages have become crispy and smudged
That shows love and warmth
But wet wool seems cold and miserable.
If I dropped a needle in the water it would become rusty,
Useless and uncomfortable.
I would crochet in the bath, but I don't think I could find a board long enough.

— The End —