These moments happen.  Suddenly –

a stitch drops off

the needle, bares cold the metal.

Those clacking sounds. Cease.


And when you look through

yourself in the mirror, the silver

sheet is only an ugly face.  A thin lip.

A pleat creased,


starched into another pant leg.


There is no lace

in the hinge of your knee.

But there is yes

flat as linoleum, yes graver

than a diamond,


Yes in a cattail grating

on the sleeve of a reed.

-Sarah McCartt-Jackson-
“Interlude (for Domestication).” Monolith. 1.1 (2010). Print.

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