She crafted booties, doilies,
sequined Barbie doll dresses,
formed like magic
by needles, hooks
flashing in table lamp light.

She knit order, crocheted sense
out of patterns at night
from factory days, cigarette smoke
haloing her bobby-pinned head.

She left miles of loops, meters
of chains behind each time we moved
gave them away for pennies, watched
them carried off to new homes
by strangers’ hands.

Mother, words stitch my life,
poem here
story there.
I learned from you
it’s best to set them free.