Exposed
those frayed ends you hide
the red and black fibers woven together and folded under
unruly fibers prickle your skin all day
so accustomed to the chafing that you never stop smiling.
I found a strand and I pulled,
unraveled my way to a chatty father and the smog
you breathe in day in and day out,
the booming stereo vibrating in the concrete walls,
the curly lock of hair the devil can't straighten
snapping back into place from the puppy's paw,
the whirring of sewing pedals
stitching up hems that are tidier than yours.
How much you've knit, how much you've purled,
and how discretely your needles click and clack
from row to row.
No one ever sees you spin the wool
but these curious fingers
have stretched taut the yarn
that made you.
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