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50 Sewing I remember, that morning, how I stayed home from school to sew a dress, how I began by watching snow drape the city. Pour it out, Muse, how I tended the window, how I was patience itself, how still I sat, how I became the chair. And that’s when you flocked down, drowsy angel, clever seamstress. Say anything, say how those mothy flakes charmed you, how you tucked the snow around the buildings, how you swathed them, how you worked with the material, how you were nowhere visible but in the spaces. Sing how, that afternoon, when I laid out the flimsy pattern dancing around the fabric on my knees the rug’s whiskers buffing them till they were numb and rosy, I squinted at the arrow on the bias, dovetailed the plackets, made Tab 1A kiss Tab 1B. As I pointed the sharp snout of scissors and whispered, Dear Lord, make me good at geometry, don’t let me ruin this, as I started to cut, I could feel myself move beyond the pattern, move toward beauty, move toward the empty spaces. ...


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MARC Record
Launched on MUSE
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