Poems for ME -- part II

Apprentice

Beneath her, I curl myself into a quiet knot,
watch her work in fits of mania. Her quick,
meticulous hands dig perfect stitches;
my fingers scramble to mimic her methods,
remember her rhythm.

Beneath her, scraps of fabric dance
like axed chickens. My hands reach
across splintered wood floors to the cotton debris.
I steal these fragments for my own quilt box,
run my fingers up the flower prints. Down feathers
cradle my head as she works through the night,
her eyes puffed and bloody, her needle furious
to finish the final pieces.

Beneath her, I tremble. Shards meld together,
become something I can never guess.
In the belly of the blanket, my face blends into
swatches of color, into shapes I cannot see.
She lays the blanket over me, over the table over me,
smoothes the wrinkles of us both.
As light peeks through morning,
I fall into comfortable sleep.

Beneath the place where she once stood, I dream
I stand. Wind blows like her breath,
like my breath over a quilted flower fabric.
Her arms wrap around me, move me in her steps.
Our fingers dance the rhythm of loops,
follow the beat of well-learned stitches.

When I wake, I move into the empty space,
open the rainbow box of gathered color,
begin my own appliqué pattern.
I follow the beat of well-learned stitches;
my hands use her hands to loop in rhythms.