I embroider the days of the lunar
calendar on handkerchiefs to track
my menstrual omissions. The only way
to catch a stray breath is by exhaling
on glass & releasing from its cage
the river that lives amongst pulsing
cilia. I place a TV, the size of my palm,
between my legs & by its glare see
a moonless night. I laugh at the thought
of burglary, stitch a cigar under
an apple tree on my belly, fall
asleep to the soft sound of thread
tugging on skin, and wish my grandmother
could show me how to wash my feet
with a bucket of sand & a kettle
of hot water. I work to make
my body a comfort. My body:
the table where strangers sit to be served
as king in a court of cross-stitched
felons. Each felon with a needle’s prick
assassins down the highway of my legs.
An eyelash is pressed taut against fabric
& I know my body is a sutured thing,
that by my hand can be torn & with a needle stitched again.