Overcast

The kitchen light is a yellow lie.

I thought this spool was black,

but pulled against the wool of the sleeve,

it’s navy. I’m not taking it back.

The needle fights the heavy weave,

a stubborn, silver tooth.

Then it slides through my skin instead—

a sharp, metallic truth.

A red bead wells up on my thumb,

staining the cuff of the coat.

The wind is coming off the river

and finding the gap at my throat.