I will sew with birds instead of thread
porcupine quills instead of needles,
I’ll bead berries like pearls, like worms
who eat holes in the shells we beachcomb.
The invention of sewing
starts with pulling birds through an eye
to make the ripples that punish mankind.
The invention of sinning
starts with pushing a hole around birds
I will sew like my grandmothers
I will sew like ancient bones
And what if it wasn’t an apple they bit
but a bird, teeth tearing into red
breast, sticky on the chin
that punishes us.
What if she didn’t bite the bird
but licked, pared it down with sharp spit
until it was thin enough
to fit through the eye of a needle?
Before there was fabric
we sewed the world.
A covered temptation
is all the less resistible.