Tapestry

The pins fell softly into my palm with a quiet pop. Pulling with them, both the silence of the room and small conical shavings of sheet rock [or of years worth of dried paint, possibly]. The material that the fabric was made of, I did not remember having felt so close in consistency to cheesecloth. My mind, in fact, served a softer memory to the sense of touch; each finger remembered something that was closer to polyester or a rich cotton blend; however, each line that made up the whole was clearly visible within scrutiny of the larger picture.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •

Each silver push-pin came out; numbers one through eight falling softly, dangerously; reminding the tender skin of my lifeline that blood can be brought as quickly as hatred, as quickly as unsatisfactory sex, as recurrently as this string of inane similes. I piled them on my headboard•and began folding

•              ••

    •

•  •       •

The tree itself has, since you handed it to me and said “No, you can keep it,” held some sort of strange significance, it has been rooted to the ceiling of my room. An anchoring reminder of something that had been, a happiness and peace that I once found within myself, far away from you, possibly far away from me [although it is difficult to say what that may mean]. When it came down, what it brought with it was neither happiness nor peace.








From the moment it was pulled down it became something different from what either you or I had [I’m sure] ever imagined it could be. As it was folded, carried across the length of the hallway, walked outside, and shaken out, it transformed into a net. Within it? Your music, my shouts, our collective whispers, the echoes of our names finding rest in fabric, the smell of your makeup, my purposeful silence, a bottle or two of lavender, so much skin.

I••Shook••It••All••Out

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