Reversible Stitch—There is some kind of beautiful in traditions and patterns mimicking time and space; the placidity of tranquility, stepping forward blindly. Relinquishing fears and ties governed solely by senses.
In the shadow of the fig tree I learned to whisper softly and the art of pouring tea; knees bent slightly barely revealing the blossoming curves, blushing tint unraveling the soft skein.
A drop of nectar from ripened figs drips on my braided midnight hair, missing a loop—
Back Stitch—I hear my father call my name stamping into the thick dishrag night sky, twisting the air of moisture. Children must be seen and not heard he tells me but I don’t dare to whisper smoothing the ruffled skirt, gaze on the floor—
Diamond Stitch— Ceramic tiles of black and white cool my bare feet, head in a cloud of winter storm, hair clinging at the nape of my neck like Ivy.
Ruby was a safe color but how I wished I could wear yellow; the color of sun-flowers and daisy he loves me, he loves me not, field of wheat on endless hazy summers, cold lemon-aid soothing scorching vowl-less words stuck in throat, the slight hue just before sunrise mellowing dark into light, photographs floating on a sea of memory—
Loop Stitch—He tells me it’s a sign of weakness and no child of his is a weakling. I reject all things yellow scrubbing off along with dead skin, the loofah shreds into pieces leaving my limbs raw red sub-merging my whole body under water:
Cross Stitch—Angles twist contorting the surface, colors melt into others while time stands still- in—
Buttonhole stitch—seams sewn of hollowed ribs sawn with seven failed blessings, upended from roots but fruit never falls far from the tree finding momentary comfort beneath the leaves spreading like—
Fishbone Stitch—he tells me he loves me but best liars never truly lie re-living version of truths in parallel worlds.
I bite my lips hard to drown his voice tasting of rusty nails, pushing my tongue through the eye without eyelid splitting in half: cold, compliant, absorbing the pain touching each knot rising on the surface.
Silent witnesses, coil on coil; an elusive narrative reducing touch to tone—
*knit one, purl one*
Written by Layla
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