each morning she awoke as a cog
within a vast machine
around her relentless clicks
like a thousand flurried crickets
she closed her eyes and knew
the length of each stitch
exactly when to pivot the cloth
the perfect rhythm of foot on pedal
she measured each day by shirts
by how the white pile grew
the wooden seat cupped her hips
like a tree growing around a stone
it only made sense when they grafted needles
to her fingertips
when her shoes melded to the pedal
when her lips craved the taste of oil
instead of thinned coffee
when her unneeded eyes were plucked out
preserved in a tin beneath her bed
and her fingers and feet never lost rhythm
