i am a spinster, a classic fable
spinning away with my needles
folded neatly in my hands.
i sew hearts just to rip them apart
at the seams all undone.
too much poison.
the soldiers fed me too much dirt
and lies so i've been hiding them
between my crooked teeth
with the lords and ladies of
endless pasts collapsible into a
paragraph, a word, a letter.
i need a different kind of letter.
indian summer has its way with you
when you use it for your work.
it swallows you and will drag
you back into freeze if you look
away long enough.
i am a spinster,
not even a widow, no young to
carry in my mouth to spit out over a cookfire.
she never felt herself or human without
a boy attached to her arm, fumbling with her limbs
and putting her back together only to pull her
apart again at the joints.
reminiscent of my stitched hearts,
except they like to chew off the flesh
and me i like to pretend.
we pour poison into our glasses because
there's nothing else to do
and bodies are disposable
shred-able as paper.
even when i've married three men
and thrown them away
i'll still be a spinster,
still sewing my crooked hearts
to every dead chest.
but who will sew mine?