Knitting: A Poem

My grandmothers made it look effortless.

They played double-dutch in miniature

while watching the evening news

and sweaters, scarves, thick afghans

flowed

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.