My grandfather was a tailor —
perhaps he sewed or cut or altered.
I never knew him.
I want him to have made
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.