(Another poem from my "Amerian Ofrenda" collection...
The Needle
The needle pulsed
up and down,
up and down,
up and down,
like the foot pumped the pedal
to spin the sewing wheel,
like papá sol rises in the morn
then sets into el mar,
like the train that clanked
north and south
across the border.
The needle pulsed
up and down,
up and down,
up and down,
the journey of hand and thread,
of pattern and machine
that married cuff to sleeve,
sleeve to body,
with collar to crown all,
following the plan made real
by patterns and pins,
pencils and scissors,
abuelo’s hands and dreams.
The needle pulsed
up and down,
up and down,
up and down,
penetrating and puncturing
through fabric and weave
as abuelita’s fingers
pushed and pulled,
building like the new moon
phasing into full,
circle upon circle to stitch
decoration, elegance,
story, journey and border
on pocket, sleeve, and trim.
The needle pulsed
up and down,
up and down,
up and down,
like rain falls and nurtures
then rises to clouds,
like breath inhaled
spreads light
through lungs and blood,
until in the exhale
it begins again,
up and down,
up and down,
up and down,
fine hand work finishing,
with needle, thread, thimble,
ritual and history.
