HYPNOSIS KNITTING Poem by Gwyneth Lewis

A day of wordless misery,
thorns in the heart
that refuse to budge.

No matter, I'm keeping company
with myself, though hurting,
redeeming time that was torturing me.

My grandmother's craftwork,
I suddenly see,
was self-medication,

her fanciest knitwear
anti-depressant hosiery:
a stance against her melancholy.

This pattern wants only rhythm from me:
no judging, no knowing,
just moving on

into a future. I'm working three
axes. First a new personality
made from my patience.

Second, a scarf
composed in calm,
a respite from my usual self-harm.

The third is my finest.
Look! I've unpicked
myself from my worry, a delicate stitch

into the present. No one can see
this last. Mindfulness charges the air,
arrays me in intricate gossamer.