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Itís 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 sheíd darn large holes, † †  
used Grandmotherís 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 Iíd watch Motherís 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 didnít 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, Iíd wonder if my thoughts † † †
were just another garment to be fixed † †  
† † †
if she could patch my tattered soul † † †
where those coloured threads tangled. †
Written by Goya
Published
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