Again that hopeless cross-stitch in her lap?
See how the restless fingers thatch, and itch.
If only she inclined to rip the thread
With one saw-tooth, to end the sordid row.
I hate her like this; hate the endless stitch,
Stitch, counter-stitch, the ugly popcorn wads,
And mean pursuit, pressed at the needle’s point,
Precise, enfleshed with countless colored threads.
Meanwhile, I breathe in brilliant selvage shocks
And time my breath and pinking with the pokes
Inflicted on her poor wholecloth; the needle
Flashes like a fish within a glass.
I look away—the fabric’s hers to suture
And riddle with one dext’rous, itching hand,
Until she winds the hateful, sucking threads
Around her little finger, knots, and snips.