Darning
She is always darning the frayed fabric
Of things. Socks or sentences, she contrives
To darn them, with the needle and the word.
Like the pruning spade, she heeds the warning
Clink of steel against roots. Though something loth,
She locks word threads and sound cloth in a truce.
Where a simple seam would mend, her darning
Is forced always to masquerade as cloth,
Or as an oath arm in arm with the deuce.
She is darning, darning, darning a trick,
A mirage of freedom that chirps and strives
To pretend wholeness, like a wing-clipped bird.
Hibah Shabkhez is a writer of the half-yo literary tradition, an erratic language-learning enthusiast, and a happily eccentric blogger from Lahore, Pakistan. Her work has previously appeared in Black Bough, Nine Muses, Borrowed Solace, Ligeia, Cordite Poetry, and a number of other literary magazines. Studying life, languages, and literature from a comparative perspective across linguistic and cultural boundaries holds a particular fascination for her. Blog: hibahshabkhezxicc
