UNDONE

Clothos' thread has knotted yet again,
and gossamer strands have snarled upon a snag.
Atropos' thus hampered fingers weave my life
which, unembroidered by a gentle hand,
unravels through my days
in trailing, ragged bands.
I hope Lachesis' silvered shears are sharp
and make their sudden cut most kind;
for I am woven from a mended skein,
too much spliced, too often tacked and twined.
Too many careless tailors pierced the warp
to leave me tattered, torn, and seined.

Too many careless needles pricked my heart
(before the motif had a shape,
before the pattern had begun)
before I learned to knit myself from pain.
Daily, with labored decorum,
I gather my remnants and piece me together,
sweep the snips beneath the rug,
spread my fabric before unsmiling eyes,
and hope to escape note that
I am fragile, fragmented and friable, undone.

Copyright © 1994,1997 Kathleen Anspach Preddy

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