In this fallen hour that was mine, my mother
and I sit, her words a mystic thread.
they draw together layers
like the stitches she would string
through dolls’ aprons and arms
when I was a girl

In her embrace I weep and she sits as a chair, arms
outstretched, her arms support my arms,
her back supports my back, and her lap
becomes a place for me to sit.
she’ll whisper gentle words, quiet,
the tick of a pocket watch. Her words
will sew lovely stitches over my heart, lovely
as an embroiderer with her needle and thread.
Each word transcendent art

cover the tatters of me with threads
of love, iridescent as pearl and the rainbow fish.
and as the slim of her neck bows low, her breath,
like the sheen of a silk scarf, I find myself whole.
her fingers, thin like the thread of a spider,
brush my hair and push tufts from my eyes,
her ribbon-like hair spilling down
to kiss my cheeks as our foreheads meet.