for Jenny Hart
For months, we could not work.
Then middlemen arrived one dry,
pale morning; while I made bread,
my heart unraveling, my mouth,
constrained, gave no sign. New
instructions: Malaysia, France.
The woman assigned a chord of
Russia stitched the most beautiful
purples, the colour saffron blooms,
before burning the work in her fire.
After turning the ashes, her portion
recreated was vermilion.
The day always cools. Momentarily,
my true work: satin and steil stitch.
Before my child weeps for milk, my
husband wails for supper, Hafiz
whispers counsel: with a sweet string
at hand, my friend, the world gravitates
from demolition to form.
Alicia Cole is a writer and artist in Huntsville, AL. She struggles with bipolar disorder. Her work is forthcoming in Star*Line and Anima. You can find more about her at her publishing press Priestess & Hierophant, www.priestessandhierophant.com, or Facebook at www.facebook.com/Aliciacolewriter.
The Ekphrastic Review
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