The Mending

The light in the kitchen is a yellow bruise.

I’m stitching the cuff of my only good slacks

with a navy that’s too bright, a loud excuse

for the way the fabric sags and cracks.

The needle found the meat of my thumb instead.

A round, dark bloom on the polyester leg,

while the last of the string, the final thread,

fell off the small, rotating wooden peg.

It’s rolling toward the stove, a hollow sound.

I’m sitting here with my hand in my mouth,

tasting the copper, watching the floor,

knowing the seam won’t hold anymore.