As I sew a button
to my old winter coat
stitch, stretch, stitch, stretch
I think of my grandmother’s
mortified delight
should she have seen
one such as me
mending a hem:
stitch, stretch, stitch, stretch
To pull the thread taut
well over your head:
it’s a trollop’s skill
a slattern’s tack
stitch, stretch, stitch, stretch
try: it feels lovely, loose,
lithe, unleashed;
see the air’s slow pressure
cup and weigh the breast
confess the skin’s intimate self-kiss
stitch, stretch, stitch, stretch
like a kid so full of the answer
you’re fit to bust with it
a Russian claiming space-rock,
or a mountain summit
a medallist swimming freestyle
winning a fast heat
a blue stocking hailing a cab
you’ll pay for
with your own hard won cash . . .
reaching for a larger self
as you fling your hand higher,
you’re a statuesque Liberty
with tiny silver javelin,
a miniature, dreaming spire.