The Worst Parts
The man she loves is dead,
and left her a thorny heart.
It’s torture. And so she knits.
It numbs. It’s transcendental.
Self-medicating. Melancholy
stitching a repeating groove.
Her rhythm never judges –
the needles know she
doesn’t want to move on.
Written for dVerse Quadrille #135 “groove” . Shared with @Experimentsinfc #APoemADay on Twitter ©Misky 2021
🙂
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I remember watching her, and yes, that’s exactly how it seemed.
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Thanks, b
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Thank you!
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Thank you, De!
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Dark and honest as it is, I like this poem.
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Thanks, Lillian! ❤️
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You sketched her well with a few deft strokes of the needle.
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Thanks so much, Grace.
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I’m not a knitter (wish I were) but it seems that knitting could be one of those activities where you can kind of go on auto pilot and indeed “numb out.” A sad place to be told so well, Misky.
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Exquisitely sad
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Yes, but it helped her cope and kept kept her sane. Sometimes that is best one can hope for.
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Thanks!
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It's Still Life 
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