On Monday, my husband waits until I get home to say the words.
I go to unload the car and carry back tears.
Sitting, stirring, I begin to take out stitches on
a strayed shawl for the third time.

An artist and an adventurer, she sipped Dickle and ate meat
and raised chickens. She slept in a small house to live spaciously.
Erin was tall and never knowing of how she showed me to
express, explore, expand, to exist.

On a long ago Friday, with frayed Carhartt pants, we were
chatting about women, and their depictions in magazines,
Erin says,“Well, they’re not shaped like a real woman.”
For a lasting moment, I see from her wise and lovely eyes.

Erin is a stitch unlooped from our tight knit.
A drafty gratitude, a sudden shiver. She was here, with us, with the world.  
And now we are looping onto each other, tenaciously.
Even so, what are we to do with slipped stitches and this hole?

May we purl pain into artistry. All we have to do is add the t.  
So we will paint. And we will climb mountains.
We will tear and we will cry and live and bleed and die.
Until then, we have no other task than to knit ourselves together.

In pain I want for nothing,
It's slain my lust for *******,
In vain I shan't be working,
To gain a woman's raw thing.

**** for a magic potion,
Sliced by a druid's sickle,
I rub it in like lotion,
To cause my seed to trickle.

The lambda is the Greek-L,
But even those gods - fickle
In lending me the mir'cle :
Insertion of a full-grown dickle.

(Now my song is over,
You heard it there in Dover,
Unless drown'd by your lover.
I'll stick to my ***** glover.)