the needle’s eye

reflections on my mother at the sewing machine
 
“We are going through the eye of the needle; make sure you
leave what you don't need behind."— Terence McKenna
 
of thimbles and bobbins,
she made the day alive with fancy threads;
her scissors and shuttles
sculpted and stitched with whites and blues and reds.
the cotton reel yielded
rivers of yarn pulled by the needle’s eye,
as hemline and selvage
consumed in deadly gulps their full supply.
 
the spinning wheel journey
began with yards of fabric on the bed:
calico and cotton,
chiffon, chintz, tweed, organza, pique, and suede.
rough textures and smooth ones
competing for the pleasures of the touch
―caps, jumpers, and dresses,
shorts, trousers, vests, nighties, and skirts with crutch.
 
the blinking old needle,
its stubborn eye shut tight against the thread,
frustrated my mother,
who could not penetrate its maidenhead;
till one of us children,
cocky and full of nimble-fingered sin,
took charge of the pushing,
and effortlessly shoved the damn thing in.
 
isaac was the singer
who modified the thomas saint machine,
where walter hunt meddled,
adding lock stitch and eye needle between
the elias howe model
with curved-eye, pointed-needle shuttle thread.
long dead the harbinger:
AI will string the needle now, instead.
 
© Copyright 2023 July 19
by Clyve A. Bowen♫