a mirror’s singular translation,
relay of ripples on a pond’s surface.
Voices delivered in static envelopes
as needles sang through cloth: women
whose fingers sewed bead after bead
on my blouse. Intricate blueprint
on a field dark as night, recipe they
never need rehearse. Whereas I
send my arms through each sleeve, stretch
hems across hips— fumble through syllables,
semaphores to spell out what I want most.
In response to Via Negativa: Farewell to London.