Poetry: Knit Four Purl More

 

I wear my limits like a big woollen jumper

It keeps me warm

but weighs me down.

It’s heavy when wet

and as of yet

I have never won

a swimming race.

Nor a running race

or even a hopping race

or even the race for the bus

for threads get left behind

and become entwined

in nearby branches

as I try to race by.

The sleeves roll down,

never biding at the elbows

and get in the way

of playing the cello.

It smudges ink,

gets stuck in the sink,

and in bike chains

in looms,

and even on ballet bars.

 

And I gave up on

knitting

after the last

stitch was in place.

 

Made too big

for the small owner

that I am

but

I fear to

unravel the thread

to start again.

instead

I watch

it stretch each time

I wash

it with bare hands

that twitch against the cold touch

of wool and water.

And each time I wear

this cable knitted prison

my small body

is

 

shrinking

and wrinkling

beneath.