The Sewing Tin
It hid in a drawer,
anchored in darkness,
a landscape borrowed from others,
finding geography in the contours
of buttonholes and zips, few alike,
metallic retorts, sharp spikes slipped
from fabrics unknown.
Who wore the dress,
with flowers in her hair?
Who loosed a pin
beneath the moon’s
bone wide stare?
Who pulled pearls through?
A breadcrumb trail of prizes.
I am looking into
the heart of secrets,
flexing them beneath my fingers,
prying their mechanisms;
no blood on my hands,
hanging stitches from the past;
the dead pricking my fingers.
Ali Jones is a teacher and writer, living in Oxford, England. She holds an MA in English, focused on poetry in domestic spaces. She writes and performs on a regular basis.
atriumpoetry.com 