The Youngest Fate

I learned to manipulate

the thread before I learned to talk,

I stitched thin fabric to itself,

hemmed the eternal woven cloth

snipped and cut, bound and purled

you would think that it would be beautiful, but

instead, a tangled mess, knotted at awkward increments

where threads cut off.

I apologize for the lives I ended,

inconsequential for me, with the snap of shears, brief and sudden,

or a long tearing, rending the fibers apart with my fingernails.

I am sorry for your loss

The truth is, I never knew, I was told

by my sisters simply to make my part perfect, and every time one strand stretched

longer than the others, it broke any chance of perfection it had. They were always good girls,

kept their corners of the quilt, the world neat and trim, folded across their laps

when they slept and I embroidered

I apologize for the havoc I wrecked,

I never should have pulled the yarn, the thread,

never should have sewn in the thousands of glinting beetle-eye buttons

I never should have snipped nor woven in more ribbons,

I am sorry for the lives I have ended

I am sorry for the fallen threads, the torn strands.