We put on our fabric hearts
before and after bedtime,
holding memories inside them
as if they were a keepsake.
Textures and shapes
make up our feelings.
We’re raw and sewn
human beings, invented
from the finest sheep’s wool
money could not possibly buy
The life we live in is a complicated pattern.
And I haven’t gotten the chance to
design my quilted square yet.
I’ll be able to crochet stories—
tell my children my old glories;
inspire them to become the
weaving storytellers of tomorrow.
Everyone is their own seamstress.
We patch lies; create truths, as we bind our
families closer together.
This knitting technique won’t ever
reveal its divine secret.
For that’s the beauty of our existence to discover.
While needles control my actions,
my shoulders ache.
I am a yarn figurine,
born with five different hearts.
Chiffon tin foil,
my common sense
and conceptions of love.
My mother is a tailor.
My father is a sartor.
They both smile stitches.