Unstitched
I am held together
by tiny stitches
on small scraps of feed sack,
snatches of wool, snips of gingham.
A patchwork of pastels—
a slipshod collage of cotton.
I’ve been silk, satin, taffeta;
I’ve been flowers, polka-dots, and plaid.
Thin white thread
zig-zags
across
the decades
hemming me in, keeping me
from ripping.
I’ve been zipped.
Buttoned.
Unsnapped.
I’ve been bumblebunched, twisted,
and straightened. Held pins in my mouth,
pricked fingers, and calloused
my thimble-less thumbs.
I am done.
Unravel me now:
Rip out the seams
one by one, untwist strings
and untangle knots. Fold me gently.
What I haven’t finished—
take now.
Begin again.
Life Cycle
September’s cicadas are in a frenzy of crescendo
and diminuendo, their sound boxes like kettle drums,
tymbals flexing in celebration and lament, buckling
and unbuckling, ridges rubbing faster and faster, drumstick
clicks on washboard: We’ve done it, they cry! We’ve met
and married; mating’s done; our progeny buried in bark
to emerge next summer or maybe in seventeen, tiny nymphs
that slept through our deaths, never knew how the song
rose and fell one last time that late summer day. How fast
it all transpired once we fed and left our old skins behind.
Sarah Cummins Small lives outside Knoxville, TN. She taught creative writing, literature, and composition for over 20 years to students at all levels, from elementary to college. Her poetry has appeared in Yalobusha Review, Willow Review, Appalachia Bare, Free the Verse, among others. She holds an MA in English/creative writing from Iowa State University.
