My Mother’s Knitting

She learned to knit at five years old,

Sat upon her father’s knees, tongue out.

She’s knitted sweaters, scarves, even sculptures

Of people she loved. But now a child’s small coat

Is not child’s play, but rather a hopeless knot.

Her place and patterns, once known, only zag and zig

And end confused. She jumps at every knock

Upon the door — a stitch drops (or two) —

The bombs of war she thought were laid to rest

Explode instead upon her lap. She drops

A strand of words and wool: we rush to place

It back in hand and — see it fall again.

Two husbands, buried, leave a hole bound off

Not called for by her pattern. She knits and rips,

Knits and rips: again, again, again;

Unable to see — believe — it’s gone.

It’s gone.