The point of clothes was line a shallow fall of cotton over childish hips or a coat ruled sharply, shoulder to hem but that line was marred by hands and all the most amazing things that traveled in them to one's pockets goitering the shape of grace with gifts - a puffball only slightly burst five links of watch chain passed secretly in class a scrap of fur almost as soft as one's own skin. Offended at my pouching of her Singer stitch my mother sewed my pockets up with an overcast tight as her mouth forbidding all but the line. I've lived for years in her seams - falls of fabric smooth as slide rules my hands exposed and folded from all gifts. And it is only recently, with raw fingers which still recall the warmth and texture of presents that I've plucked out stitches sharp as urchin spines to find both hands and pockets empty. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DUNES OF INDIANA by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE KNIGHT'S TOMB by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE PRISONED IN WINDSOR, HE RECOUNTETH HIS PLEASURE THERE PASSED by HENRY HOWARD TO GIOVANNI DA PISTOIA ON THE PAINTING OF THE SISTINE CHAPEL, 1509 by MICHELANGELO BUONARROTI THE ROSE I GREW by JULIA S. ANDERSON MARY MAGDALEN by BARTOLOME LEONARDO DE ARGENSOLA EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND ELEVEN by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |