Poem: Knitting



My grandmothers made it look effortless.
They played double
-dutch in miniature
while watching the evening news
and sweaters, scarves, thick afghans
like ticker tape readings,
strands of wool looping over index fingers
with the familiarity of their own veins.
Their eyes never bent below their noses.
What does it say for me,
the tangled messes I’ve made of their structures,
their smooth, steady morse code
turned to urban graffiti in my anxious paws?
My dropped stitches are like scars, form into awkward, misshapen lace
and I am forever picking up extra stitches
causing bulges here
ripples there,
so many more loops to account for.
My palms sweat, and the wool pills and unravels
before ever becoming anything
And I successfully knit my brow.

Copyright Amy Leask, 2021

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