Knitting Poem by Joan Xie

She brought a plum twig to her mother who was knitting by the window shimming in a setting sun.

Her mother said,
How long
will this blossom last?
The last one doesn't last a week …
The one before
I recall, last, only three days isn't it?
Why do you
always
love
those
won't last?

Enraged, she forced the twig into the thin neck of a decanter. Whistling on the stove now, her mother's tea. She entered the kitchen, removed the pot.

You don't need to love
what I love …
last or not
like or not
I just love those
Never lasted.

Her mother took out a pair of scissors and cut a thread of the knitting. It lost its shape instantly, collapsing to the wooden floor into a pool of yellow-orange. She now saw clearly that the yarn her mother used for knitting was from her baby pink sweater.

O My God,
she yelled,
My favorite baby sweater. …
Why do you always
Hate those
last? …


Her mother picked a thread up from the floor, selected two long metal pins, started new knitting.

Well, I just want to see
how would like to knit the Spring
in a young sweater.



Her mother said.