Worn

Worn

I squint while sipping my too-hot tea.
Somehow, bracing for the burn
means the inevitable will hurt less.
If my eyes close
just a little bit now,
I repent to the desolate wasteland
my tongue,
"But I tried."

So I squint.
For once the tea is just right.
My rusted body steeps and softens
back together again
legs off the ground
tucked underneath me.
          Comfortable
numb below the ankles.
That's okay.

The half-finished scarf purrs in my lap
warm and weighted.
The aluminum needles chattering
the echo of my cold fingers.
Knit
purl
knit.
Reach for tea, squint, sip, steep and soften.
Knit
purl
          knit.
A sensory pleasure process
like slicing through silk.

Knots I've allowed to form in my back unravel
thread by thread.
I wish that moment would linger.

All of it requires
just enough
focus.
I need to see what I'm doing.
          The impossible
                    worry-fed
                              scenarios
can't pull the wool over my eyes.

The tail of my yarn whips
my vision into focus
pointing to a stitch now missed
          a triangle-shaped hole
                    a relic of my failure.
"Direct consequences," the yarn tells me.