Poetry

Maps of the Body

by Gary Boelhower

She began by ripping them 

ripping them to pieces 

stitch by stitch cutting 

the threads that held things together 

long seams of sleeves 

panels of breast and back. 

A pile of old coats left over 

from the church rummage sale. 

For her a treasure of herring bone 

and houndstooth 

another way she did 

the magic of making do. 

Early in the morning I would find her 

in the small warm kitchen 

hunched over the table 

translucent patterns laid out 

like maps of the body 

the rise and ridge of elbow and shoulder 

broad prairie of the back 

she measured traced pinned 

precisely each piece. 

Later the music of the sewing machine 

the phoenix taking shape 

coaxed by her quick fingers. 

The final step was the satin lining 

always secondhand luxury 

stolen from some grand cape or gown. 

Without fail it fit perfectly 

the sleeve sitting just an inch 

above the thumb 

the snug collar to keep out the wind 

the whole heft of it 

full of warmth and protection. 

I almost forgot when 

I walked into the cold world 

it was a ragged scrap discarded.