It’s ok to be that disappointment, baby

     
My Mother stitched clothes      
for people with more money than sense.      
Every day, new socks would appear      
from men called Angus and Edmund      
who had impossibly big dogs      
in impossibly big cars      
     
and she’d darn large holes,      
used Grandmother’s metal hook      
to gather slipped strands      
weaving them back into      
their garish gun club print.      
     
I never craved an opportunity      
to sip champagne from a glass shoe,      
but I’d watch Mother’s hands      
knit life back into frayed fabric    
and wonder if humans
were worthy of repairing      
     
if life, and death, and love      
were plucked tapestries   
that could be mended.      
     
I was 21 the first time      
I tasted a girl.      
     
She wore the scent of sweet tea      
and summer peaches and I swore      
I would never forget the small arc      
of her lip as it curled up in blankets      
of warm euphoria      
     
how I didn’t know part of me      
was missing until the hinge      
of her legs pulled me      
into the slow orbit of her body,      
my head a crescent moon      
while lashes became galaxies,
dark skies colliding with falling stars.      
     
My Mother tailored trousers      
for men attending charity gala dinners.      
Every day, I’d wonder if my thoughts      
were just another garment to be fixed      
     
if she could patch my tattered soul      
where those coloured threads tangled.