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—