The Point of the Needle

Since you got to behead

each

              hollyhock crown

              with your round

              guillotine

              of a mouth―

I hope you get to spin inside your

               paper house.

              Emerge Noctuidae,

              owlet moth, 

              laying your eggs in leaves at night.

    

That you might finish your stitch―

Replicate yourself in time so you are

              always present―

              each egg a deposit―

              an echo-pearl of “you” along time’s string―

That my soul might be allowed

              to flourish―

Make a success

              of threading flesh, to participate 

              again in time, on 

              long arcs between sets of plunge, even though

                            it hurt―

                            to be born and die―

                            it loved to ride

                                          the point

                                          of the needle―