in the same critiquing way
that my fingers check these stitches--
Could note the nubs and notches,
the patches and holes,
Knowing that if I wanted
I could unravel the wool and redo the rows--
I watch my fingers bind the final edge.
Feel the bulk of it,
Stretch and tug and smooth and look again,
Look and look again and feel again like
I can't bear to put it down.
But would I?
And my silly heart beats faster.
I always say not to play what-if's.
And still I am tugging and smoothing.
the dropped stitches
the poor tension
the irregular threads
Over time, I tell myself, it will all wear in.
Those little things, no one will notice them.
And all the while, I know I will be writing this down, writing these words,
Asking my self aloud for the first time,
watching my own heart spill out on this page,
watching my own letters scrawl
faster and more
as they are.
If I could unravel it and do it again,
fill in the holes
straighten the rows
even the tension
I don't know.