The Clothes Maker


My clothes come from places that are not immediately obvious:

A forty-day South American Christmas, an attempt at youth in College, a place of blessing turned hard.

Embroidering is slow, so I mix patience with excess and comfort. Embroidering can be silent or loud, and it is inside and out; but it remains the single piece of cloth I choose.

At unexpected sounds, my thread sheers a right breast pocket to gently cinch the waist.  A set of green grapes spilled from the cup of an already full Caravaggio.


Thank you to the folks at Kumquat Poetry for publishing my poem! It was originally published by Boston Poetry Magazine.

Written 2009


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