Falls
Into a basket of wool & cotton
The needle stops
Pulling a Dürer alphabet
Behind it on the Irish linen’s
edges
My grandmother would sit for
hours
In a single column of Omaha
sunlight
Removing holes from sweaters
Finding new pockets for billfolds
With that silver needle she
blinded
The Snake of Eden Stitched his
jaws tight
Never again to mumble "Apple
Apple"
Or point to a red sunrise like a
friend
Giving directions to the public
well
My grandmother liked to scalp
Her backyard apples with a knife
From my father’s Boy Scout days
Slicing
Perfect cubes & triangles of
light
I would sneak into her kitchen to
devour
The red peels & that white
hexagonal core
