{"id":3429,"date":"2011-06-23T18:30:35","date_gmt":"2011-06-23T18:30:35","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/sporkpress.com\/poetry\/?p=152"},"modified":"2011-06-23T18:30:35","modified_gmt":"2011-06-23T18:30:35","slug":"a-stitch-in-time-by-donavon-davidson-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/2011\/06\/23\/a-stitch-in-time-by-donavon-davidson-2\/","title":{"rendered":"“A Stitch in Time” by Donavon Davidson"},"content":{"rendered":"

A Stitch in Time<\/i><\/strong><\/p>\n

In another story
\na boy is made
\nthe funny shape of forgiveness.<\/p>\n

A church pew
\nwith little arms and legs.<\/p>\n

Funny little smiles
\nwhere knees and elbows
\nsecretly bend.<\/p>\n

The sign of a cross.<\/p>\n

A funny little tickle
\nof dirty bedclothes<\/p>\n

in the back of the throat<\/p>\n

whose sorry now.<\/p>\n

In another story
\na boy is playing dead.<\/p>\n

Counting the stitches
\nthat keep his head
\nfrom rolling off<\/p>\n

into the sea.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

I want to feel something dead
\nsaid the boy
\nwith real hands.<\/p>\n

Pants, soaking wet.
\nA pillow full of screams.
\nThe monster under your bed.<\/p>\n

And he does<\/p>\n

what every little boy wants
\nto make sure<\/p>\n

he isn\u2019t alone.<\/p>\n

But I can only be sorry
\nso many times,<\/p>\n

sorry for the universe
\ntrying to thread the needle<\/p>\n

in his chest
\nto keep him still,<\/p>\n

sorry for my button eye
\ndangling from my poor cheek.<\/p>\n

The poor thing
\njumping from a burning window
\ntowards<\/p>\n

the burning earth.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

He counts to ten
\nbefore he comes<\/p>\n

looking for me.<\/p>\n

Ten little black X\u2019s
\nwhere my mouth used to be.<\/p>\n

Ten little treasures
\nstill shinning in the fruit cellar.<\/p>\n

Ten black scratches
\non the face
\nof a watch.<\/p>\n

Stitches in time.
\nReady or not<\/p>\n

and he finds me
\nin a world I had stolen<\/p>\n

from the trees,<\/p>\n

growing in two directions.<\/p>\n

Both in places
\nwhere no one<\/p>\n

sleeps.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

In another story
\na boy is God<\/p>\n

under the bed.<\/p>\n

Waiting for creation
\nto sneak up on him
\nand jump
\nunder the covers<\/p>\n

before he can get his hands
\naround its ankles.<\/p>\n

He lies in his kingdom
\nof grass<\/p>\n

itching<\/p>\n

to make a doll to keep him company.<\/p>\n

One with the same
\ngreen and pointed
\nexpression.<\/p>\n

In another story
\na boy is a monster<\/p>\n

drawing a red curtain
\nover creation.<\/p>\n

Everyone is all cleaned up now
\nsleeping in the next room.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

When I\u2019m alone
\nI can take the straw
\nout of my chest<\/p>\n

and have something quiet
\nto dance upon.<\/p>\n

I tell myself
\npay no attention to the boy
\ngetting dressed<\/p>\n

behind the curtain.<\/p>\n

Which is good.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m tired of studying the universe
\none stitch at a time,<\/p>\n

tired of trying to brush away
\nthe wings of flightless things<\/p>\n

from the thin black thread
\nbetween my thighs.<\/p>\n

I tell myself
\npay no attention to the boy
\nflying above the bed.<\/p>\n

He is only looking for courage
\nin the half empty glass
\nof my lips.<\/p>\n

Which is good.<\/p>\n

This isn\u2019t a yellow brick road
\nyou dumb scarecrow.<\/p>\n

You don\u2019t have the heart<\/p>\n

to stop dancing
\nas if there\u2019s not a bone<\/p>\n

in your body.<\/p>\n

*
\nThe tracks are always
\nIn the snow \u2013<\/p>\n

Discarded clothes
\nBruises
\nTranquilizers<\/p>\n

The many ways of feeling good
\nabout making it through<\/p>\n

a thousand tunnels of love.<\/p>\n

Drawing curtains.<\/p>\n

Learning all about love
\nin just one night.<\/p>\n

Growing up
\nin someone\u2019s hand<\/p>\n

when they strike
\nkeys of an out-
\nof-tune piano.<\/p>\n

Out there<\/p>\n

little dead stars<\/p>\n

in a little black shell
\nof a boy<\/p>\n

that you can put to your ear<\/p>\n

and hear the sound
\nof something drowning.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Somewhere in the middle of creation
\nI jumped from the roof
\nand flew over my bed.<\/p>\n

I could see the lights
\nof a new city glittering<\/p>\n

inside me.<\/p>\n

Far away the universe
\nwas expanding,<\/p>\n

stretching its rope tighter
\nand tighter.<\/p>\n

I think I\u2019m falling in love.<\/p>\n

His light is the last
\nto go out.<\/p>\n

When it\u2019s dark
\nhe won\u2019t recognize me.<\/p>\n

I can stop pretending I\u2019m a tree
\nand crawl back inside<\/p>\n

his skin.<\/p>\n

We can roll into the sea
\nand my arms won\u2019t lift him
\noff me.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ll be pulled under
\nas he swims<\/p>\n

like a butterfly.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Every morning I cut
\nthe wings of flightless things<\/p>\n

out of the snow.<\/p>\n

I can see the angel
\nI left behind.<\/p>\n

He lies on the ground
\nlike all things<\/p>\n

that surrender their flesh.<\/p>\n

Things of water
\nand light<\/p>\n

all want to run away
\nfrom where they were born,
\nbut their hands are held<\/p>\n

down<\/p>\n

by children who die
\nin the night<\/p>\n

and return in the morning
\ndrenched in a terrible sweetness<\/p>\n

no one ever talks about<\/p>\n

until the sun goes away<\/p>\n

and they trot out
\ntheir little black pillows<\/p>\n

and smother their tiny
\nemptiness.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

God is not so scary
\nwhen he stays inside<\/p>\n

the closet.<\/p>\n

In there
\nI can think<\/p>\n

his voice will turn into something golden.<\/p>\n

A broken alarm clock.
\nA whistle only dead dogs can hear.
\nA belt that keeps my pants up.<\/p>\n

But he keeps ticking away.<\/p>\n

And I\u2019ve run out of places
\nto run out of.<\/p>\n

And the mattress is too full
\nof needles<\/p>\n

to sleep on.<\/p>\n

Any minute the doors will open.<\/p>\n

Any minute<\/p>\n

is as good<\/p>\n

as the next.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

In another story
\na boy turns his body
\ninto a suitcase
\ntied with a black string.<\/p>\n

Training the world
\nto let him leave
\nplaces that no longer exist<\/p>\n

in his own box.<\/p>\n

A tin can
\ndragging behind his wedding night.<\/p>\n

A table
\nfor a tea party
\nwhere smiles happen in funny places.<\/p>\n

A pillow
\nfor the sea, that it
\nmay hear something rising and falling.<\/p>\n

A bed
\nfor the monsters
\nwho must be so tired
\nof all their Heaven and Hell.<\/p>\n

In a room with a broken window,
\nsmoke pouring out.<\/p>\n

In another story
\na boy\u2019s body is just a stone,
\nan anchor,<\/p>\n

an arrow<\/p>\n

making a point.<\/p>\n

A thing of water,
\nof light.<\/p>\n

He\u2019s not done flying.<\/p>\n

&nbsp<\/div>\n

——<\/p>\n

Donavon Davidson<\/strong> holds an MFA from Goddard College, and his poetry has been published, or is soon to be published, in: 3:AM<\/i>, Anti-<\/i>, Arch<\/i>, Anemone Sidecar<\/i>, Pedestal<\/i>, WordRiot<\/i>, MiPOesias<\/i>, Stirring<\/i>, Evergreen Review<\/i>, Barnwood International Poetry Magazine<\/i>, Quay: A Journal of the Arts<\/i>, Holly Rose Review<\/i>, and SNreview<\/i>. He currently lives in Vermont where he teaches writing at the Community College of Vermont.<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A Stitch in Time In another story a boy is made the funny shape of forgiveness. A church pew with little arms and legs. Funny little smiles where knees and elbows secretly bend. The sign of a cross. A funny little tickle of dirty bedclothes in the back of the throat whose sorry now. In […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1,2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3429","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized","category-things"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3429","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3429"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3429\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3429"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3429"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3429"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}