I regularly go Into denial that Sweaters shall pill.
I know this again with Ruthless clarity today.
Little daughter discovers My sweater stone three days ago, “What is this, mama?” (And a gong goes off That echos across my Whole. Life…
The revelation The dread The duty Or neglect.)
For the love of functional loveliness! Mercury retrograde: An innocent hike from Fall Equinox.
All those feelings The digestion Release The way reality sheds Its skin…
Shapeshifter, What is this anyway?
Somehow running Cooled lava Over cashmere—
Fuzzy balls of Legitimate Lint Snowing to the floor Singing: “Fuck it, I’ll pick it up later”…
While wearing That thrift-store score As I shave it:
*I am the humble and bold Prodigal daughter of truth.*
The sound is not one I like; The scraping of wool.
But for what it does to my heart, Like pumice to a he(e/a)l [That’s been immersed For three rounds of Draining tub & Hot water]
…I sit that ancestral part of my brain That cannot touch Pill-jar cotton, By a green-belt creek That’s wild anyway the suburbs, With my most longed-for love…
And I do what I need to do: Razor-sweeping stone over Sweater snags, To be the woman I am here to become When I put on that Dependable weave Of knitting needles’ Tall tango with yarn—
That archetypal ribbon Of wellnest wonder-coat—
Well well well, Look who showed up For Life!
Very well, What’s next?