Heart with Wound

Thread on felt

I read stitches like Tarot cards—
with an eye toward something
implied, metaphorical, meaningful,


My finger lingers over the first
because it has to be the strongest,
at least so far.
Without a tough knot and a
deep enough puncture,
the sutures will unravel like
a clumsy shuffle, a disaster
no less slippery and difficult
to control.

Each little scarlet x is a moment
that lends value to
what I’m trying to do.

What I am doing.

The symbolism is almost
too tidy,
but nothing about my handiwork
looks manufactured,
and I know this process is real.
I feel it as though it were
actually in my chest,
my human chest where a man who
wanted to hurt me
placed his lips and lied to me.