Poetica Magazine

Tailor

My grandfather was a tailor —

perhaps he sewed or cut or altered.

I never knew him.

I want him to have made

something whole

to cover vulnerable parts.

I too am a tailor,

stitch chosen words together

from the fabric of my life,

swatches of memory —

the orange-black heat of desert rocks

so hot they are pale like forbidden ash;

the green-brown spice scent of forest floors

paths through trees made of centuries

that hide things that crawl and burrow;

swaths of sky on galaxy blue nights

when the full moon obscures the stars

or Stygian ones when the only light is a wish. 

I want to believe I have his skills

to put something sharp into something pliable,

create garments of words

to try on or take off;

make a costume for love

and a different one for loss.

I want to fashion a wardrobe of words

to touch the skin of anyone brave enough

to try on the pieces of me,

the now of me and the ancient memories

carried in my DNA— proof that the past

never entirely fades from the fabric.