Embroidery Thread

Though the rest of her body
moves in time with the flow of molasses,
Fran's fingers still strike quickly
with a needle and thick colored thread
through tautly pulled fabric.
Her skin is loose
compared to the cloth
through which
her needle pokes,
but her veins run through her body
just as the thread stretches
through the embellished
pillow cases, handkerchiefs, and tablecloths
that lay finished at her side.

When the light stops peering through
the double pained windows and the curtain lace
it is time that Fran
settles her fingers
for the evening.
Tenderly,
she begins to fold her wares
into perfect square parcels,
never to be unfolded or adored
until a customer examines it
herself.

Through table displays of wicker baskets-
formed by Frannie's deceased husband-
customers will rifle
for the song bird
whose presence will make their dinner parties
sing when served alongside these napkins.
Each discarded possibility
Fran folds
slowly and automatically
into a square piece of fabric
that displays
a corner of design
unabashed.

Once every article is ordered
into its rightful place,
Fran will retire
to her rough wooden chair
in the corner of her kitchen.
It is dark there,
having but one dim light bulb
nakedly protruding
from its socket,
but her eyes are tired
and accustomed to this soft atmosphere.
Pouring a can of soup
into a blue and white chipped bowl
and heating it in the microwave
is a daily ritual which
she could just as likely perform
in darkness.
The light rests her eyes and body.
It is not until
the steam stops rising
and the soup is once again cool
that Fran can,
with her now trembling hand,
pick up her spoon to eat.

Had the spoon been polished,
or even properly washed,
it's concave end
would reflect a healthy spoonful of a woman.
Instead,
the spoon is scratched beyond knowing
and only rinsed between uses.
The real reflection-
no matter the light-
is haunting.

She wears shoes
whose soles died ten year's prior-
about the same time
as the death of her husband.
Her socks,
woolen even in summer,
have holes through the toes and heels.
One day, there will be nothing,
but their dank aroma
for proof of their wear.
A wrinkled ankle-length
flowered skirt-
the pattern much like that of curtains-
pairs its dishevelment
with a pearl gray buttoned blouse-
white in another era.
Atop her head,
Fran's brush bristle hair
sits fitfully.
The gray mass
falls out of her bun,
but her hands do not bother
to rearrange the threads.