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They were all garbage

The pieces of cloth

The swatches of plaid

            Muslin

            Silk

            Velveteen

            Corduroy

            Even polka-dot

 

Miscellaneous buttons

A minutiae of textures

Colors of a painter’s pallet

            Bent

            Metal

            Plastic

            Round

            Misshapen

 

Threads of spools found in

Thrown-out purses

Ten-cent bins

Deceased cloth

            blue

            red

            black

            (your favorite) burgundy

 

Separate they were ugly

A pile of forlorn

            Unwanted

Trash

The pile of refuse sitting

On the kitchen table

Coupled with a needle

And secretly I hated it

 

That you made us wear the

Remnants of a farmer’s shirt

Stained with sweat and fatigue

An old man’s trousers reeking

Of death and powder

The checkered tablecloth once covered

In crumbs and ant-carcasses and

The green stains of grass

 

Yet I knew why you must do

Such a thing so I never asked

Out of understanding

            Pity

            Fear

As you wove the needle

In and out

Through the pieces of material

 

So intently

Frowning in concentration

As pink floral merged with

Pastel yellow and a kiss of lace

Slowly

            Painstakingly

You labored

Under the dim electric light

 

For me to have a

Dress imbibed with the memories

Of a little girl picking Brown Eyed Susans

Barefoot and blissfully ignorant

A doily reminiscent of tea-time

Laughing and chattering

Of a young lady’s skittish apprehensions

As she takes his own moist hand

 

I wore memories

Of July heat

            In the bowels of Wisconsin winter

Silent smiles

            At grandpa’s funeral (he loved to tell jokes, remember?)

Tree branches

            When I needed something to hold on to

And when there was nothing else to cover me

 

Your tablecloth,

Checkered

            Red and white

            Faded in one corner

            Purple in the middle where I spilled my glass of grape juice

Enveloped my fast-growing form perfectly,

A jacket lined with thick white wool

And an inscription in bright blue thread:

 

“I clothe you with the pieces of my heart.”

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Open me up—

It is okay, do not be afraid.

Sift through my contents

And tell me what you see.

But first,

More importantly,

What do you feel?

Velvet? or perhaps,

Silk? I shudder to think

That you should feel wool!

I feel much too good for that.

But go ahead, dear,

Plunge away.

You can pick me apart—

Do not fear! I am made

Of stronger stuff than you may think.

What is my skin composed of, do

You wonder? Is it pliable or rigid,

Like soft plastic or wood?

I know I am not porcelain,

For I have fallen many times

And have not shattered,

Though I will not flatter myself

To say that I am perfect—

No, no! Not good to be full of yourself,

You know! So I do not think I am made

Out of any invincible materials,

Like steel… (ha ha) but would it

Not be a laugh to be made out

Of Teflon? Oh, by all means,

Look there, just watch out for my

Heart; I can be a little sensitive, you know.

Best not to play with that, even if it has

Gained considerable strength during

My lovely walk here. Oh, have you

Quite finished? Well, what have you

Divined? Perhaps… yes, perha—, of course,

Of course! You are absolutely correct!

Yes, well, could you leave me for a moment?

It is a touchy thing, looking at one’s self,

But I trust you, dear, when you say I will

Like what I see. You see, I like what I have conjectured

Without even looking, so I know this will be a great

Adventure indeed. But ah, such a trial,

This blasted introspection! And such fun as well!

But where to begin, with the mind, heart, or soul?

Shall I lay them all out before me

And arrange them as jigs in a puzzle,

Or inspect each component separately,

As a scientist would do? No, no, I am

Over-thinking this. You can do this,

You skittish creature! You are beautiful,

You are strong, you have survived. Now,

Get on with it.

 

Shannon Markiewicz