threads tender square how do you tell a story that is still unfolding? my vision shimmers with static; leaves rust. our hands become hickory bark, peeling back to bone. the rain needles sunlight, sews the cosmic veil to present: there’s a new part of us waiting to be born. 211009 ... unhinged my dad's mother could create all kinds of things from thread, cloth, yarn. knitting and crocheting seemed to be her favorites but she also sewed and needle punched. needle punch was the only thing she ever taught me. and i enjoyed it. it was like coloring with thread. iron the pattern onto the muslin. put the muslin in the hoop frame to keep it taut. thread the needle. punch punch punch. change colors as needed. the threads come together many years later my ultra catholic grandma blamed my mom for my dad's divorce from his first wife (the sin of breaking a sacrament like marriage so serious my grandma shared a house with a man she clearly despised for close to fifty years her father left her mother with thirteen kids in the middle of the great depression and much of the work of raising all those kids fell on her her threads black and brown and blue clutched in a tight fist she used to beat my father with) she called my mother a dumb polack in front of me my brother my father who said nothing i have never been married i have seen where those threads lead 211009 ... tender_square so often your brillo beard catches brown threads, long strands shed from my scalp. i pull each line in light, the glimmer of our unweaving. 211210 what's it to you? who go blather from