how delicate the tapestry of a memory.


the thin lace of blue veins

over my weak wrists

twisting in the arc

of my father’s silver socket wrench.


how delicate the quilt of life.


the quick threading of a sedan

over the cracked grey seam

of familiar pavement;

a sweater I’ve worn

into sweet decay.


and inside the haunted closet

of the family garage,

the oversized garment before me,

a red lawnmower,

dyes my fingertips black

with oil and carbon flecks,

while the threadbare innards

of the mothballed machine

lie in oily clumps

between my toes.


my own gears churn

behind the white stitching

that i’ve scraped and broken

into a comfortable blanket.


my own machinations continue,

needlepoint gaze

sticking for a moment

to satin in the eyes of passersby,

or to the warm flannel

woven through the curves

of a beautiful stranger.


and as she rests

over the leathery muscles

of a scuffed bomber jacket,

a thousand gossamer hairs

have quilted themselves

into the backs of armchairs

and silken ambulances,

and the air in the old folks home

smells like shaved angel.


those that remain there

weave schizophrenically

in myriad hues

through years

entangled by Alzheimer's.


i try to imagine myself

entangled similarly,

the iridescent magenta of my first kiss

tied unceremoniously

to the knotted black cancer of a future divorce,

the colors melting away,

the faces mixing,

skeletal tripwires lingering

around ankles i once recognized,

begging to be untied.


and as this moment is

woven around me,

the red lawnmower

bakes in my driveway,

the dull smile of its chipped paint


as it falls suddenly to pieces.

This poem is about: 
My family
Our world


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