I’m being remade.
Deft hands tear the fabric of me,
without wasted movement
or hesitation:
clean lines, no dangling threads,
and fluid rearrangement of
color
pattern
texture.
These quilt pieces,
cloth made of the stars,
the ocean floor’s curvy sand,
flocks of birds,
tree bark,
sweepings of sky at sunrise
the yearning blue of twilight, and
the sparkle in eyes when the heart sings through,
a unison growl,
and hum of any satisfying meal with friends.
Stitches holding me together dissolved, long ago,
what few held were torn-
quick snap and done.
When this is finished, this blanket,
or cape,
or kite,
or skin,
I won’t need it.
Until then,
I thank the tailor
sewing me back together,
my cloak the feathers of great
and able-bodied raptors,
the slipperiness of fish nestled in close rock caves,
the ambling walk of bear, his fur
a submission to all
he isn’t.

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