she brought to the table one pair of old stockings, a darning needle and thread, and envisioned before her night hours in thousands she’d contained in shadows where forms of old lovers and friends who’d betrayed her got stuck in the corners, were moths chewing wool; she thought of the lies she’d passed over that table like potable jams on a bread of indifference; how much she had said to people who weren’t listening and how weighted she was by words never shared; holding the sock up to overhead light, she found herself racked by self doubt, indecision and it wasn’t until the needle had pierced her and blood dripped on the reflective hardwood floor it wasn’t until this small act of undoing this crimson bead, on the tip of her finger; the sound of an Owl in hunt for prey, when the front door flew wide open allowing the scent of eucalyptus entry, it wasn’t until then, on this night she thought shuttered; she knew she must bleed if ever to heal.
Posted on: Thu, 04 Jul 2013 05:26:20 +0000
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