The Seamstress

Don't think I haven't noticed
in the still world that part
that plunges forward

as if to cast itself
back to the beginning

when the hands that held
the soul for awhile
desperately, left it

blind and kneeling.

I don't recognize you now
or myself but I hear
two voices speaking

softly about trauma,
about how stitches can
make two separate pieces

seem one

until the seamstress
snips each tightly woven
thread

as she's been trained
to create halves of some

and mend the others.