Wooden Needles

She knits her daydream history
into the woolen throw. That
slides off the chair and out
into the corridor. Onto knitting
needles with twine. The Lord

and Grace birthed twelve children
into long cold fields of dough
and domesticity. Fields of dairy cows
and thread and shit. Grandma
Grace and the gentleman farmer.

Death took him, my mother
only seven. Already beautiful.
Ruined. And so the men are few
in this portrait of family secrets.
Poked here and then. Yarn and
ribbon conversations. Stitches

softly left unsaid. For later.
Unknown face of an uncle or
stranger or friend of the family
that walked up those stairs. Knit
purl knit. Forget or. Remember
into colorful rows. Corners turn.

She knits a memory or more. Or
less. Rough burlap sweet chenille
softly distorted into present. Time
passes green yellow blue red
and ivory ribbon. Thick fingers
probe. Wooden needles.

-- Brenda Roper 2005