we shop for textiles, fabric and thread
as if it is the only thing we have to discuss
we pore over colors, cut shapes of disjointed edges
and I ignore how our bodies aren’t the same
you teach me patterns, flowers, log cabins, strips connecting
and pretend not to read what I write about the world
we align the squares, sewing them with articulate stitches
denying how much work it will take to make them fit
blue veins of your hands come through your skin clear now
I am afraid when I look at my brown fingers, of what will tear us apart.
but we stitch and iron and hum with this strong thread
cover the floor we sit on with laughter as I pull out a crooked stitch
and re-do it, tighter.
Prompt: write a poem that incorporates a hobby.