Woman and Sewing Machine
After Joseph Cornell
As beautiful as the chance meeting
of a sewing machine and its mistress
on a dissecting table,
I am still as a dress model
cut from paper,
waiting for you to flick
your switch, gazing toward
your cast iron arm,
tension discs, balance wheel, spool
pin,
needle clamp.
Nothing accidental or
serendipitous about us,
I climbed your plank willing
as a magician’s assistant
because I saw there was space,
and in you a partner to arouse
and disperse the pulse
of sutures
blooming like a fleshy rose
of unfolding storylines
and unspoken desires.
When I close my eyes, I’m
transposed
to my childhood bedroom
listening to grandmother’s
factory Singer humming
insects through the ceiling;
idling, then revving
the zipline of a marsh wren,
rhythmic purr and clicking
that paused when she
lifted
off the pedal
to rotate fabric,
like someone who turns
the corner
moments after
you conjured them
I am searching for the collage
of words to explain our self-
possessed codependent
symmetry.
When your thread
ravishes
my boundaries and girds
my heart, the stitches fall soft
as mink tracks in the snow,
imprints that tickle
but never hurt.
Always a work-in-progress,
malleable like wax
stars dripping in a pattern
to be reimagined,
from the squat brass
oil can’s spire
I lubricate
your delicate machinery
to spin mutual justifications of
art’s immortality,
anticipating your
motor’s murmur,
and the fresh flower
plucked
from its fragrant shrub.
About the Author: Kristen Keckler teaches writing at Mercy University in Dobbs Ferry, New York. Her work has appeared in L’Esprit Literary Review, The Argyle, The Iowa Review, StorySouth, Vestal Review, Free State Review, and other journals. She can be found rummaging around garage sales and thrift stores, on the lookout for unexpected treasures.
Image Credit: Arthur Dove “Hand Sewing Machine” Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
As It Ought To Be 