Black Thread, Mint Tin

The lining tore on a door handle, clean

as a decision I didn't make,

and I sat on the floor past midnight, keen

on mending something for my own damn sake.

The tin said PEPPERMINT in faded green.

Inside: black thread, two needles, and a pin.

I don't know who I'm trying to have been,

pulling the dark cloth tight to start again.

The needle dips. The fabric gathers, puckers

around each stitch like skin around a scar.

Outside, a siren. Someone's car alarm

goes off and stops. The quiet comes back harder.

I bite the thread. The mend is crude, uneven —

a crooked seam that no one else will see.

I put the coat on. Still fits. Still warm enough.

It holds. That has to be enough for me.