Life is on stitches?
Can I see her interstices?
The lacunas, gaps, and hiccups
along the thread’s journey
slitting in and out–
Stop. What is that thread?
Index cards, smiles, almond-shaped eyes,
a foreign accent, English tomes.
Do they make up the lining on cuffs,
or the cross-hatching knee-patches on jeans?
Does it sustain fanciful patterns
in a land of clouds,
or lie discarded on the ground?
Actually they recreate the moment
of sitting atop a stoop after a day of work,
smoke curling from a cigarette clenched
between teeth.
They overshadow the cracks in the pavement
into where the rainwater drains,
into where the marginalized drain.
But see here, how the marginalized become
the the thread opening new
dimensions – interstices between genders
and colors and feels, they become
the stitches that keep us together on the same fabric
called life.
And me? Not woman nor man,
not Asian nor Western, not happy
nor sad.
Just A Soul Yearning for Meaning.
inner stitches - interstices 