Rachel Loden Poems

Whose bread, buttered on the side of the angels,

falls from a great height? So you wait
to take the temperature of your enslavement:
...

After the offending bit is popped out
these tiny stitches on your neck

are exquisite. Lips of the slit
don't speak the way you think they should,
...

What a giant I must seem to them, an exhausted giant who dozes above her sewing.

Asleep in mid-stitch, sorting the day's haul of cinders, rubies, griefs—

They were laughing and carrying on, their tiny silver needles flying in and out, tiny silver thimbles on their fingers.
...