Knitting with Dog Hair
A novice at spinning, I pump
with feet cramping in the arches,
toes splayed within stained
suede sandals, wisps of fur
tearing off, floating through air
made hot, heavy, hard to breathe;
the spindle twitters under my hand
like a dangerous bird; my nose itches
inside; I remember your skin
as I saw it long ago, covered
with a curled, golden down
fine enough to make a baby’s
first blanket. I took this
hobby up as cheap therapy;
combing the dog, rubbing his pink
belly in reward, watching his
grateful ears rise, then fall…
Soon I will complete my first
garment — draped gracefully
over the shoulders, gathered
at the waist, droopy bell sleeves
in the madrigal fashion. I shall
strut clothed this way, down your
street, to knock at your door —
wanting more, I know, than you
could ever give. Smart, witty,
you are never at a loss for words,
except when faced with my designs.
Kimberly Townsend Palmer 