the ballerina and the mermaid smoulder under the iron, their adhesion
a matter of heat and emulsion, no skill required.
next, the owls
yellow-striped and solemn, stitched in place
with large, tremulous white thread, bunched up and knobbled
a mess of knots and protruding wisps.
tigers dance, askew, across the red world, chasing fish
whose corners pull away, like aged tape
a promise of wreckage (soon) to come.
the letters of a name
waver under the eye, neither straight
made, it hangs
on a hook, prepared
to carry food and coats, water and promises
made and marred, by my inept fingers
all my care and passionate love
not sufficient to make adroit my hands, my eyes;
not enough to paper over the gaps in knowing.
if I only could have woven it of words, this tactile thing,
drawn an air-satchel in the lines of this poem, and presented it to her
made beautiful with the only cunning I possess, a wheedling tricksy way
with phrase and song.
made, I show it to her
and grow warm in her delight
her knack of seeing not the flaws, but the hopeful love
that binds it together.
her tonic happiness a charm to ward off that devil
who whispers all the time of the falling-short, the gulf between what I want to be
and what I am, to them.
made, it waits
a crooked, merry thing
to live an imperfect life
- Kathy, 30/1/13