My brows are also knitted
As the wool descends slowly,
Row by row,
A series of nooses hung by their own kind,
How ironic.
Click-clack! The needles sound
The frenzied rhythm of me,
Stabbing mercilessly, they tear
As they flash through the caves,
And yank out still more pitiful stitches
That are queued in suspension until they
Are dragged, one by one, off the end,
And flung with the others, snarled together,
And limp forever.
No. Not nooses. Heads. Yes, stitch by stitch,
The heads will roll, ha-ha! Pointed guillotines
That slip heads off, only to cast more on,
How ironic.
My elbows grip my sides, my mouth is firm,
And my eyes are fixed watching
The grim battle. The needles seek my noisy revenge,
Leaving holes for my pain
Between my tight knots of bitterness, until finally,
Finally, they display my heart's terror,
My sorry soul, that is woven into
A colourful array of thick, winding cables and
Ribbed edges.
I run my hand over it lightly,
And am surprised by its resilience,
The energy held within
These forced coils that were once straight yarn.
I pause for some moments, then lift
My needles again. And now
I breathe in the jasmine
Floating in through the window, and
Hear the possums playing on the roof,
And see how the moon joins me
As she quietly knits the night
With her ball of light
And her own silvery needles.
