Needlepoint
She likes to embroider me -
a subjective needlepoint
yet a realistic arts and crafts.
A long relationship
requires some fine stitching.
I see a broken thumb nail,
a hand greasy with engine oil.
A vinaigrette of my silhouette
cleaning grandpa's old revolver
just because I do sometimes,
just because.
A chipped tooth and beat-up nose
the fist that hit it, now nowhere
to be challenged.
A telltale hint of man-boobs
an old man's wrinkly bottom.
Her fingertips are clear-eyed,
but the images are softened
with a patient love.
She also embroiders
hummingbirds, butterflies
and flowers -
a holy trinity to encircle a baldhead,
the dome of which
she kisses each night.
She composes
all these scraps of my reality
on a broad white cloth
that I am happy to wash
my sleep-fuzzed face with
each morning.
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