The Old Woman At The Sewing Machine
A poem
The sewing machine goes
tuk-tuk-tuk,
louder than usual.
An old woman sits at it,
her grey curls billowing
in the mild breeze of the table-fan.
She is sewing together
the seams of her soul and heart -
the patchworks were
beginning to
open up and spew blood.
*
I take for granted
the spool of thread,
await it to hold me together
as I senesce along with
my fibrosed scars
that have rendered me rough,
yet tender and tearable
upon pushing too much.
Every word, an embodiment
of the smarting burn
the skin feels when judged,
I take upon myself,
the need to hum
the rickety rattle of a sewing machine
in the distance between
now
and then.
*
In my dreams,
the old woman pedaling away
at the loud instrument
has my face,
with wrinkles sporting
specks of stardust
and silver-grey hair strands
that line the clouds.
© Sana Rose 2020
Written on April 10th, 2016
