the breeze blows the leaves on the trees
flipping and turning them to and then away from
the hot sun beating down on us.
The clothes we wear
red blue green yellow pink
shirts and shorts and summer skirts
made of thread
a past now all snarled up in a sticky-string ball
inside my head.
At first I was afraid
of what I would find along the
miles of thread that used to hold together what I’m now taking apart
Now it’s too late for that. I have gone ahead and done it.
The seam ripper slashed the threads
red blue green yellow pink and
I took apart the garments seam by seam and now
I am beginning to deconstruct the very fabric by
I’ve recovered from this work
is frail and
I had not noticed
I am angry.