On November 18, 1985,
During some inconspicuous hour
On an inconspicuous street,
Unbeknownst to you,
Or anyone else
In that inconspicuous suburb
You picked up your needles
And you began to knit.
You knitted stockings and perfect curls
You embroidered manners
Appliqued femininity in pink
I tried not to cry at the occasional prick
Or the heat of the iron
You knitted food
That lurked beneath the shadow knit
The ovaries overloaded,
I clutched my pillow in patient agony,
Is a technique in which purl and plain stitches alternate,
Producing a rippled effect.
It can be decorated in a number of ways, but the foundation is always the same.
Two irreconcilable halves forced together by a bit of thread.
Barely enough to cover my freezing flesh.
No chance at warmth with
The front door wide open
Behind iron bars, and the foundation missing.
There was no double knit.
No second set of needles.
Like a weaving, I was made to stretch only along the bias.
25 Years later I review your work
Grasp a thread.
And begin to pull.