There’s a hole in the swatch.
It runs, taking other threads with it. When the only way to pick it up is beyond my skill, things come unraveled, and the hole grows.
Physical needles won’t pick up a spiritual stitch.
I have two pair, and neither are made for this.
In the beginning, no one tells you about the threads,
and the connections,
and the threads,
and the pulling,
and the threads.
You only notice when one moves…or maybe it doesn’t,
and maybe you moved but didn’t tell the threads,
and you cannot find the weaver or the knitter or someone to
Screaming helps only in the moment before the sound leaves your throat.
Crying helps only in the moments before tears fall, even though catharsis happens at the end.
Catharsis is not enough –
I am not yet skilled enough pick up the stitches.
I AM NOT YET SKILLED ENOUGH TO PICK UP THE STITCHES.
And when I look, they’re everywhere. The hole is not just mine.
“LOOK!“, she says.
“KNOW!“, she says.
“DO!“, she says.
I am not ready for the looking,
or the knowing, or the doing,
and the threads keep unraveling,
and the hole grows.
And it takes, and it makes an empty space
where threads should be,
and solid things are flexible,
and static things are fluid,
and the immoveable is moving.
And I will.