Edge Stitch
I move my needle &
lengthen the stitch, let
the edge foot guide my work
My topstitching’s perfect
like stripes on a highway
(rayon thread, just the right sheen)
How is it that now, when
any mistakes I’ve ripped out
are bad memories
I still listen for the rattle
that says the bobbin tension
is off: something like
Loose quartz, banging
around a rock tumbler
something like regret
Aguamarina
The earrings Abuela Blanca wore
when she left Havana
are mine now
lever backs in a vintage setting
perfect oval gems, named
for water
How many different shades
of blue is the water in Cuba?
I’ll count them for you
in the mirror
Second Emily
By Second Emily’s
ICU bed
I recited First Emily’s
poems backwards
line by line, checking my
ragged memory against my Kindle
How could I imagine—
choosing the name
that a quarter century
later, First
might ease my harrowing
anguish over Second?
Every neurologist
used the magic word:
Neuroplasticity
the brain creates new pathways,
they said—they were right
When First Emily was wrong
Hope isn’t strong enough
—my clumsy wrist
might snap those wings
in one unfortunate flick—
Second Emily
in Extremity withstood the gale,
and the electrical
brainstorms afterward—
Whatever creature she is
besides mine
—her ridged carapace,
her spiky heart—
she fought as rain pelted her
and wind knocked her down
until she found her way back
First Emily
has yet to show me
any fucking thing with feathers
who could
do that
Madeleine French lives with her husband in Florida and Virginia. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Black Fork Review, The Madrigal, Poetica Review, Hidden Peak Press, West Trade Review, Thimble Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. You may find her on Twitter, @maddiethinks, and on Post, @maddiewrites.
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