Cloth of God

As just one pulled stitch in a sweater mars its facade,
so the two of us snagged on your chronic fatigue

but eventually learned to mend our rapport:
hook the kink of estrangement,

pull the loop through the breach,
and reverse for the view of the other’s perspective.

Marriage for us was a mutual cape
refashioned and patched over time,

so tufted with lapses it mimicked chenille
yet was hardy as patent leather.

Reaching into our marital ragbag today
I sift through what remains,

find remnants of anger, frustration, and pique
entangled with comfort, affection, and grace.

If I could cut them in strips to crochet
or piece them together in squares for a quilt,

I’d use stained or frayed scraps as the batting,
lessons hard-learned for layers of lining,

and sympathy and good will for the pattern—
then wrap myself in it for comfort and warmth.