Redwork

In the sunless hour before day I hear the man I want

to love just how I’d want him. He’ll never let a single,

single danger, no unasked-for thing my way. Mornings break

against the body I’ve made do with. An A-line dress

found secondhand, its designer celebrated last decade,

label sheared in alteration. I re-sew its silhouette

to flatter these shifting dimensions—hips, breasts. Silent,

I bet on imprecise measurements, I prick my fingers

raw. In days past, women sent away for stitching patterns—

wielding mop—all to be sewn in the same scarlet thread.

The finished quilt top a neat grid of empty symbols,

another woman’s memories—boy with pig,

circus act, pear. Such specificity, the makers

can almost never be identified. This is the only alchemy.

What we have is even less than what we make.

In the dark, our faces shed old light.

A single, single, single thing.