|Jan/Feb 2019 Poetry Special Feature|
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
"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.
numb below the ankles.
The half-finished scarf purrs in my lap
warm and weighted.
The aluminum needles chattering
the echo of my cold fingers.
Reach for tea, squint, sip, steep and soften.
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
I need to see what I'm doing.
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.