Sewing

a blue button, a handkerchief, a strand of hair. when i was a child, my grandmother
would praise my sister’s discerning eyes as if her observations made her more
capable & worthy of love. so i set out to see more sharply, to take in all the things
of the word: the curve of a keyhole a doorframe, a water glass. all the shapes
that contain us. afraid of missing the slightest detail, i sewed my observations
into a piece of fabric i folded & stored under my pillow. this is what dreams are
made of: an ant, burnt grass, a plastic rose, a slit fish. weaving in & out, out & in,
my needle pierced & wove & bound letters against letters until words emerged against
the backdrop of my blue fabric. a G to an O to an N. later came the E. what I
hadn’t anticipated was the numbness, the small pricks in my fingers as letters formed &
deformed under my touch. was the way objects lost & regained their shape. G O N E.
was the pleasure & the pain i felt until i tethered what i loved until it couldn’t move.

Header photograph © Mane Hovhannisyan.