Sewing Song

 

My grandmother pinked all the seams,

protecting them with zig and zag

from an unravelling of the weave.

She taught me how to set in sleeves,

face a collar, match a plaid.

But above all insisted I pink the seams

that season of patterns and gabardine

so no dress would have a ragged edge

from an unravelling of the weave.

Outside our shade-drawn cool, heat

and prairie wind left corn fields frayed.

My grandmother pinked all the seams

while mourning doves relentlessly

called from poplar trees, unravelling

the hours, the griefs of the weave.

Bending to fabric, pattern, shears,

the needle’s eye blind to hopes mislaid,

my grandmother pinked all the seams

against the unravelling of the weave.