Test Strip

I used a scrap of the muslin to wipe up the tea,

the fabric so raw it felt sharp on my hand.

It soaked up the brown till the bruise was all me,

a messy new map of a dry, thirsty land.

In the pile by the chair is the dress I began,

the edges all frayed where the scissors were blunt.

I had such a clear and a beautiful plan,

before the real world started its hunt.

The unhemmed border is shedding its grit,

white strings on the carpet like hair from a head.

I haven't the heart to go back to it,

leaving the needle and all of the thread.