Angie Macri​

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A Good Pair of Scissors, if Taken Care of, Will Last You Forever

 

Where is the mother, heavy

with all she remembers?

The shallow drawer for spools of thread,

honest colors without names,

shades to match any piece of clothing;

another drawer, deep, with patterns,

women drawn with legs from here

to there, ordered by numbers;

then the drawer of odds

and ends, silver shears

never to be used on anything

but fabric, pin cushions

shaped as tomatoes, perfect

red in the palm and all the pins

the daughter rearranges

in patterns, as constellations

or silver flowers to please her.

Have you been in here

again without my permission?

Have you touched my scissors?

The child has seen her eyes

in the blades, which she has

not touched but imagined

in her hair, in construction paper,

in the garden, the slide

of two knives working together,

almost dancing, whatever

has been cut, falling away.

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