Two words held together by
the thread of my being.
Pronounced like patchwork,
the stitched squares I can’t tick
a name that sticks
out. Sore tongue.
But it rolls with the r’s of my mother’s,
painting hills with the bumps
they make. Rhythmic song in my father’s
stretched syllables which jump
at the prick of my needle.
Difficulties arise, sewing silk and leather,
a pattern that takes a while to follow.
Say each letter, they’ll never spell it together.
Not a smooth Plath but
crafted as carefully as Wollstonecraft
Not made to fit, not made-to-measure
Obscure outfit, colourful beads and feathers
Something about your discomfort
Brings me pleasure.