Sewing
Fingertips Queuing at Miss Pope’s
desk
to have our cross-stitch checked,
we made daring needlework of our
fingers
in moss green and golden brown.
More thrilling than those woven
squares
where you followed the holes,
no piercing involved.
We
were desperadoes, raising the stakes
by sewing ourselves to our jumpers,
to the pages of our jotters,
to each other.
Like firewalkers, or sleepers
on beds of nails,
we vied and swaggered:
see my magic,
look how brave
I am,
I never make a fuss.
Except the new girl,
weeping through
clenched teeth,
hand embroidered with blood.
Learning what it means
to try too hard.
from Hard
Water
| 
