Your daughter says, “Sew me
a dress.” I sit cross-
legged on the table. I burn

incense and chant, “Don’t leave
me alone.” I examine the root
of each hair plucked

from my head. I twist it
into thread. I sew myself
in her hems, clothe

what you’ve fed. I dream dust-
crumbled coal diamonds,
steers and steering wheels. Oxen

hooves through hay roofs. Dug-
out. Watch for fire, tailor-
self. How long can a kettle

hearth-whistle before it boils
dry, catches straw chimney? I sit
cross-legged, wearing your mother’s

clothes. Crackle, house, crackle
mud and daub. We are red-
olent with beeswax, my thumb

and I. There’s a hole in the ceiling.
I set aside the dress. I set a hole
into your pants pocket, ready

for a stream of rocks to flow
through: pebbles, mica,
dust. I hop into that pocket,

too. I cling at its knotted
edges, wondering how long
I can cling at its edges, how

long until your hand
comes in to rest, to push
me out.

About Jaime: Jaime Warburton completed her MFA at Sarah Lawrence College; her work has recently appeared in or is forthcoming from journals such as The Southeast Review, Gargoyle Magazine, Storyscape, and Prick of the Spindle, and she is the author of Note That They Cannot Live Happily (Split Oak Press, 2009). Jaime lives in Ithaca, NY, where she teaches writing, dances ballet, watches Xena: Warrior Princess, and buys OMC Zero Fat Lentil Dip by the case.

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