knitting with dog hair, a poem

Knitting with Dog Hair

Image

 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.

 

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