With Needle and Thread

When I come to you, I burst at the seams,
The world is exhausted at hearing my screams.
So you take your colors, your needle, your thread,
And you stitch away with colors I’ve bled.

Green thread for arms, that I may be strong;
You stitch up my muscles, and nothing goes wrong.
For my feet so weary you choose a dark brown,
And despite all my walking, it’s soft as birds’ down.

For my heart so wounded, so scarred with regret,
You sew up with red and say to forget.
If I ever need you, you say with a wink,
You’ll be there faster than I can blink.

Now I look down and see with a start—
What have you done to my poor, poor heart?
It’s true I’m not bleeding, but instead I swell—
Bruising and scarring does not look well.

And my arm and my legs—alas, tailor dear!
The darning is shoddy, and worse, so I fear.
My joints are loose and my limbs wave and flop;
And this mended muscle—it’s useful as slop.

You can fix it, you say, with a dark little smile.
You tell me to shut my eyes for a while.
You pick out black thread, as thick as can be;
You sew up my eyelids so I cannot see.

Tailor, dear tailor, with needle and thread—
Now that you’ve fixed me, I think I am dead.

© copyright by Isabelle Lahaie, 2010