Rough Gabardine Poem by Sonny Rainshine

It was her mercenary heart
that made the deltas of blood
in her veins molten rivulets
of obstinance, hot resolve.

Look through the bay window
on any given night.
You’ll see her silhouette stationed there
in the sinister illumination
from oil lamps filled with juices
as blistering as her blood.

She sways in a rocking chair
made from fox grape vines
all twisted, all twined
like the notions in her head,
like the spinning notions.

She executes her crewel stitches
because she likes the word crewel
and the word cruel.
For the pattern she uses
gabardine and calico,
because she likes the sound
of the names of the fabric,
reminding her of
ladies gabbing and calicoing.

She sits and she sews;
she sews and sits.
She’d be outraged
if she thought you
felt pity for her.

She’s a cruel stitch herself,
rough as raw calico.
She's embroidered her life
in patterns of unfinished dreams,
all in the wrong colors,
all in delicate spidery filament.
Listen to her ripping
out the threads:
Pop,
pop,
pop,
pop,
pop.