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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