David O'Connell


Sister, has your edge been dulled by time or thread?
I hear that now they’re sewing hearts with thread.

For what’s ahead, tonight may you sleep deep: goose down
pillows, fresh laundered sheets, twelve hundred thread.

Eons in, I crave what pulls them through: blind
faith, blind trust in love, that oh so tenuous thread.

Push a pin into the map, push one off the edge to where
she’s gone. To feel that distance, tie the two with thread.

Why should I mind? Spin me how you wish. David,
this seamstress, in the dark, would know your thread.