John McKernan
 
 

 

          THE THIMBLE
 

Falls

Into a basket of wool & cotton

 

The needle stops

Pulling a DŁrer alphabet

Behind it on the Irish linenís 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 fatherís Boy Scout days Slicing

Perfect cubes & triangles of light

I would sneak into her kitchen to devour

The red peels & that white hexagonal core

Copyright © 2003 John McKernan.  All Rights Reserved.

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