Still Life with Needle
Paula Bohince

Mending by oven heat–
push-pin painted to mimic a peach, its felt
leaf dusty as the black ribbon
I used to snake through my braid
each morning.

And there, wedged in the kit: an orphan
earring, opal pried out,

a mussel shell, smoke-blue, its sand loose
on the satin.

Nightgown limp on my lap, torn
at the shoulder where I leaned hard against
a sycamore, waiting for a comet,
then falling asleep,

feeling myself carried to bed, waking
with dirt in my mouth,
then remembering.

What comfort, these stitches like footprints
unspoiled by a body. Such pure
walking muffles the mind,

and the spray of bridal birds
swerving past the curtain wakes it. There goes
my wedding. I’d say as a girl. As every
girl did in the valley.

from Paula Bohince. Incident at the Edge of Bayonet Woods. Louisville, KY: Sarabade Books, 2008. page 47-48.