Quilting

I sew my grief, stitch myself together. 
Scrap of silken dress, yellow apron, daisies, lilacs.
I paint my lips universe,
dip toe in Styx.

I cannot follow,
Needle pierces—no blood on cloth
            only hole in spirit.

            Too much loss—
enough love in me to balance

  the too soon?

Quilting means sewing frayed edges
into clean seams. Properly spaced stitches.
Pattern, colors, stories. Tell me lies.
Tell me hazy melodies, burning sunshine,
clover and fireflies. I sew pieces of tales.
The ridiculous, the tragic, bright fiery life.

            In and out. In and out.
           I dance the needle.
            Clumsy. Rhythm off kilter.
            Grief smothers
muted chest.
            In and out. Stitch.
            I am between constellations
            and magma.
            Tell me, where am I in whirl?

To sew you need a machine or a needle.
You need thread—if you’re lucky a thimble.
A seam ripper—because there are always mistakes.
I am told the mistakes make the quilt interesting—mysterious.
I don’t like mistakes.

            I want my quilt to have frayed edges.
            My soul is frayed and tattered and beautifully broken.
            That is okay. The galaxy is beautifully broken too.
            Even in fields of buttercups and dandelions—there are briars.

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Kim Malinowski is the author of “Home,” “Phantom Reflection,” “Buffy’s House of Mirrors,” and “Death: A Love Story.” She is The Fairy Tale Magazine’s poetry editor and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of Net, and the Rhysling Award. She writes because the alternative is unthinkable.