The Needle

(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.