Crooked Knitted Something
I’m awake before my mother,
free to ride the back of the couch
until she rises, coffee on a coaster,
smells of cigarettes and nail polish.
Half-dozen skeins, gifts from Santa,
splay sun and snow and sky
across the sofa. I ride it
like a carousel pony,
book of instructions balanced
on my pommel, letters big,
pictures blurry, or maybe it’s my eyes,
poorly adjusted to the new blue-
framed specs that slide my nose
and tangle in the afghan’s fringe
draped like a cape overhead.
I cast on, careful not to pull
too hard, steer the needles
through holes between threads.
Like six fingers on the hand
of a beautiful woman
I once saw outside the Big Dipper,
the count of my stitches
is even, worth a mother’s praise,
worthy of a second look.
.
Laundry Hint
Corner small pieces from every soap dish:
dig out the dried-up Ivory shards
in the pink bathroom, next
to the almost empty pump bottle,
claim the wet Dove ingots
in the shower’s ceramic ledge, and scoop
some gloppy mess from the scallop-edged silicone
astride the kitchen’s double sink.
Don’t look over your shoulder. Ignore the itch that flecks
your spine and collects where your wings would be.
Gather every speck into the toe of one or more
discarded nylons (who has these anymore?).
Cut the stocking to the preferred size
(as small as possible; do not call attention).
Tie it in a knot. Walk to the sink
at the back of the house. Turn up the radio.
Use this upcycled ooze to wash the blood dots
and dried-on tears from the back and front
(respectively) of your latest shirt. Just stop
scratching (says the dermatologist
in your head). Rinse thoroughly.
Surreptitiously. Hang like it’s normal laundry.
.
Margie Duncan lives in NJ with her husband Brian, two tuxedo cats, and the ghosts of two dogs. When she retired from the business side of academia, she returned to writing poetry and looking out the window. She spends some waking time hiking in the woods. Her poems have appeared in Thimble, OneArt, Rust & Moth, Lily Poetry Review, Third Wednesday, Gyroscope Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, and Black Poppy.
.
Stone Poetry Quarterly 