Macramé
I made a friend last year.
The world is a ball of string, she said.
We are the macramé artists.
We? I asked. The humans, she said.
I tightened the phone
in my fist.
I sit on a sofa, surrounded by skeins
of sea green yarn.
In my lap, a blanket grows.
My cousin’s belly…
My sister buys a home.
I knot for them and think, knot and think.
My lap grows warm, the needle slips.
The same friend who phoned will marry in the summer.
I will weave her table runners.
Soon I will learn to spin wool.
To dye it watery shades.
To tend sheep.
To shave the sheep.
To bleat.
I can’t make the animals,
but I can build the fence around them.
I can plant the plants they eat.
When time is right, I’ll arrange a trade
with neighbors—their children
for a crocheted wig or rug.
I’ll use the hair
they dig from drains.
I’ll take great pains.