In between the filing of the papers
and the serving of the papers,
there is knitting.
Then there is the appearance.
In between the filling out of forms
and the division of property
and going to court for the decree,
there is knitting.
My husband says sometimes
the ticking of my needles
is the only way he can fall asleep,
there on the couch.
Every night I sit on the floor,
eyes on dull points periodic
in yarn, measuring time
by a hand, a foot, a yard, a span,
listening for that moment
when his breathing changes
and he’s gone.






Black yarn absorbs light, color,
the needle-tips as my hands work
*K2P2 and the fabric
grows, slowly as an interstellar
hole, gravity’s magic taking in
everything I should have seen
light-years away.     Why do
we lie on our backs and gaze into
the abyss, wishing on glimpses
of rubble raining into nothingness?
Why fall into darkness with love’s soft oh?
Repeat from * to end of row.
Ribbing’s supposed to stretch.
Why don’t we see we’ve dropped a stitch
until the gap expands
and the universe unravels in our hands?






washed into hardness,
hopelessly bright

one kind of goodwill
become another,

rings chained heavily
as armor or parable
of being,

plastic enough to tuck
around the world
as if

blue water and icecap
weren’t warm





DANA SONNENSCHEIN is a full professor at Southern Connecticut State University, where she teaches literature and creative writing.  Her publications include the poetry collections Bear Country, Natural Forms, No Angels But These, and Corvus (2003) as well as individual poems in journals such as Epoch and Feminist Studies




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