The Hem
Twelve years a bleeder, unclean, the woman
presses ever nearer as the mob recoils,
recedes. Her fingers tremble to touch
a fraying, dusty hem of his heavy cloak,
too warm for such a sun. Yet, a seamstress
herself when young, she knows, even trusts
in the virtues women sew in clothes,
especially those as coarsely woven
as his, which somehow still adorns
the man before whom she cowers,
who calls her daughter, her gushing
blood dried up by the miraculous
power of his new testament, to which
she testifies: Metonymy, beloved son.
number 22 in the 2River Chapbook Series
Copyright 2River. Please do not use or reproduce without permission.