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Tailor

July 27, 2008

You pick apart the seams
of me with adept hands;
I cannot stop the fraying.

Words snip and each snipe
forces more tattering,
I slip beneath the meaning.

You pin me into something
new under curses and blood
pricked fingers.

The final dart is stitched
edges diminished, trimmed
with braided compliance.

You wear me with the pleasure
of reconstruction trickling
from the corners of your mouth.

Now I fit fine on every occasion,
lips tacked tight with the invisible
thread held in every tailor’s kit.

by Sonia Hendy-Isaac

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  1. July 27, 2008 at 9:19 pm

    Wonderfully visual and tactile words. A cool, calm surface with searing pain neatly hidden beneath.

  2. July 28, 2008 at 6:05 am

    Very chilling. The present tense used with the awareness that usually belongs with hindsight is shocking.

    Wondeful imagery, unsettlingly good.

  3. July 28, 2008 at 8:23 am

    The juxtapositioning of this poem and the previous with the photograph is brilliant!

  4. Liz
    July 29, 2008 at 5:23 pm

    Love this.

  5. Jon McKnight
    September 9, 2008 at 6:27 am

    Wow…

    Dark, very dark, like a hearty glass of bordeaux…

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