Savation comes in many disguises,
The ritural of patterns
Folds of cloths
Cotton,
Wool,
Silk,
Cut over and over and shaped,
My mother knew the way of the cloth,
Not Catholic but
the the belief behind it,
She,
Folds layers of cloths, until all
guilt and regret
is hidden
forgotten,
I have never been able to stitch a straight line,
Needle prick my finger,
Like Sleeping Beauty,
I have never got the hang of domestic chores,
Never followed through on committments,
Commit like suicide hangs easily as
Opaque drapes shroud light from space,
Discord from violence,
Salvation hangs on the cross,
It drapes as easily as fresh
spun silk hangs on the loom,
Salvation is stitched in every seam,
Until years of gret and sadness are washed into the fabric,
Until there is nothing left but
the monochrome black and white of
Faded memory
