poem 1 (celebrity + me, mundane activity), poetry workshop.

8/27/08
hook, line, and she's sinking

it's a blanket for my mother, i say,
like it's a change from anything else i've done the past 4 years
and he spools out another few inches
and the fingers that hold that skinny blue chenille yarn
folds like unmade beds in skin on hand that have held
more than just a hooker's line

it's a blanket for my mother, i say,
cause she's always cold, not like when she was young
younger
back before the tracheotomy
before, when an open window in wintertime was as familiar as breathing
and the color of the yarn in his hands is
the color of his weary eyes
woven into a blanket for my mother.

it's another blanket for my mother, i say,
hands bent unnaturally around a hook, making a fabric
rolling velvet fingertips across knots
like kneading the nerve endings in her feet to give her a little relief
and the smile that creases his face is
reassurance that he understands.

it's a blanket for my mother, i said,
and each foot of thread is another day i've spent watching
another day where she doesn't get better
another day where she feels okay

and Paul Newman spins out a few more inches
and asks how she's doing today.