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.
Angie Macri is the author of Underwater Panther (Southeast Missouri State University), winner of the Cowles Poetry Book Prize, and Fear Nothing of the Future or the Past (Finishing Line). Her recent work appears in DIAGRAM, Louisiana Literature and Ruminate. An Arkansas Arts Council fellow, she lives in Hot Springs. Find her online at angiemacri.wordpress.com.