We had nothing but rags Bags of old costumes Piled in the corner Of a dusty room Discarded scraps Of forgotten dreams So I taught myself to sew Building a tapestry Of my patchwork life Knees folded on the Chilly bathroom floor Its cracked blue lino Like ocean waves The tattered curtain Tucked up over the rail Learning to navigate By feel and intuition As I frowned Squinting at my needle Trying to get the thread Through a tiny hole In the mushroom-coloured dusk At the awkward age Of thirteen years and one month I wore them out My colourful creations And people stared Admiring and mocking In equal amounts When I grew Good enough That you could see Design in my skilful Manipulation Of throw-away stuffs I sold some For coin, or bartered favours Tailors can be born And they can be made I took commissions If you could describe it The perfect dress I could draw it in my head Then threading your dream Through my careful fingers Seam by seam I could make it Come alive
Sewing
My Big Toe
Last time I stayed in hospital
I felt like such a fraud
It never would have happened
If I’d not been feeling bored
I took out my best needles
To try to string some beads
But dropped the thread under the bed
And crawling on my knees
Wasted almost half an hour
In a wholly futile search
To find the reel with only feel
Was never going to work
But giving up too hastily
In retrospect was worse
I shuffled back and heard a crack
Then hopped to muffled curse
For I’d stood upon the cushion
In which I kept my pins
The x-ray showed my poor big toe
Joint skewered, for my sins
They pulled it out with pliers
Having made my foot go numb
I hope that was the last time
I do something quite so dumb