Pursuing the poetical, paradoxical, metaphorical, lyrical, artistical, majestical, and mystical.

Thursday, August 8, 2013

Homemade Daughter



Her wedding dress
lays folded
finally finished
the last stitch knotted 
buttons on 
hem pressed 
waiting to hang
till it graces her 
lovely shoulders. 

It wasn't made in China
in a factory assembled 
by strange hands or
checked by quality control
before being shipped to 
the mall store. 

There were times 
my insecurity wanted 
it to be tagged and 
stickered and priced
sophisticated like that,
but I couldn't talk her
out of homemade. 

She picked the lace 
and floating silk chiffon
that layers over a weighty
silk satin skirt. 
"Mama, could you 
make it have a small
train and leave the back
open like this?" 

She doesn't know 
I couldn't make myself
use the hem stitch foot 
to roll the bottom 
easy and quick. I needed 
to thread the needle - 
slip stitching love 
five per inch. 

She doesn't know I 
pricked my finger, 
hoping no blood stains
remained.
She doesn't know I
found the cat laying on 
it like the Queen of Sheba
nestled in a silk stole.  

After the wedding
guests leave he'll
unbutton the waist
that I button up 
before their vows. 

They prepare promises
to forsake all others 
and cleave to one 
another in sickness 
and in health, for 
better or worse, until
death parts them. 

I hate being left so they 
may do the needed
forsaking part. 

She doesn't know
she's taking 
my sunshine 
away. 

He doesn't know 
what it feels like 
yet, to be the moon.