‘People are sewn into their skins for life and cannot alter any of the seams, at least not with their own hands.’ Kafka


I’ve been searching through my data base of past lives

my childhood teen years young adult

new mother recently divorced midlife~

with awe-

as pained as this awe can be-

I see my hand stitching

the places along my body’s hem lines where I took

my sharpest needle, used what I thought the most durable thread, and

stitched up loose ends. 

I can even bring to mind-embarrassed

now in the backward gaze-

how I tucked the fraying in and held vehemently together the smooth skinned edges as I took that needle in and through-

in and through-

in and through-

in and through-


what I thought were neat



no one will see that mess now

good as new~


the importance of seam rippers

the well-vested cost of turning my garment over and accepting the claim ticket

held out in the hand of the wise well-trained seamstress with the necessary proper


creating a bodyform

that is the real attractive

attire so sought-

I thought well held-in hand

when I pushed the needle wore the thimble strained the eyes in the

dark to knot the thread at the end of my