by Susan Marie Swanson
All over the city, there are projects
unfinished. Road construction,
for example. Hospital paper-
work. Half a small sweater sleeve
a toddler’s grandmother has stuffed
into her knitting bag.
I hated the “prayer shawl”
aloof women at my mother’s church
gave me when she died, synthetic yarn
with an unpleasant squeak in it,
in an almost-fluorescent color:
something ugly made by hand
in the name of God.
This morning, I tried on a dress
I had not worn for so long
it had grown misshapen on the hanger.
Unnerved to discover the garment
distorted, I folded it into the shape
of a problem no one will solve.
::
Susan Marie Swanson lives in St. Paul, Minnesota. Her poetry has appeared in Water~Stone Review, The American Poetry Review, Great River Review, and other publications, and her awards include fellowships from the McKnight and Bush Foundations. Her books for children include The First Thing My Mama Told Me, a Charlotte Zolotow Award honor book, and The House in the Night, winner of the Minnesota Book Award and the Caldecott Medal.
Image: Kate McLean
Image description: a close up of knitted white yarn.
Psaltery & Lyre 