Wednesday, July 13, 2011



he woke to the word puritan

monastic may have been a better word
(but a word crafted in thought not sleep)—

as it was the sole life he walked in as well—
binding him—piercing through the borders—

puritan (although it tasted monastic)

the bottom of his foot?
the only one?
this fish?

# # #

and there were whole sentences—


i have sewn together
remnants of beautiful days. . .

and later—

i had a bad day once
for 38 years

until i met you. . .

# # #

in one photograph she is wearing a red top
(red like the bottle opener
hanging on the wall)
that leaves her bare from breastbone up

she is peeling apart slices of ham
conjuring 3 sandwiches—her bicep tattoo
even with the band of that red top

(he doesn’t even have an actual photograph
only a digital file on his computer)—

            . . .her pants black—her blond hair long—
the bowls and lamp dark dark blue. . .

# # #

he also struggled with quirky and quaint
like the other photograph—

            she is looking down—arms and shoulders exposed
            by her black and lace camisole—
            one hand on her hip—one hand on the wall. . .

# # #

he was in stitches but it was no laughing matter

and he thought—

            please do not simply hang this on the wall. . .

needle and thread are poor resources
for memory and longing
for electronic media
for stoic fingers with utilitarian missions

this puritan
(this monk)
devoted to quilting

* Composed in 2008, but published: Thomas, P. L. (2011, March). quilting. English Journal, 100(4), 65.

No comments:

Post a Comment