craftsmanship

needle tucked neatly between my lips at the ready. I fumble the red thread, all eight years of it, as I look for its end. I've never been a sewer. I tried to fix your pants, once, those ragged khakis for your job. the stitches, an inch apart, fought to keep their position along your inner thighs. I got the machine a few weeks later, to make your kilt. each time the thread tangled between my thumbs. I'd spend minutes undoing the incompre- hensible knots, needle tucked neatly between my lips at the ready, the bite of metal souring my tongue as I resigned, every time, to pull the thread out in long, loose strands, and try again. I do this now, pull the red string out from my upper chest, curl- ing between my tendons. it gets caught, every so often. the knots bunch up against my skin. my mouth sours with blood. but regardless, I carry on. there's a blanket I'd like to make with it, you see. one died orange and yellow. if I can manage to sew once all of this is over.