The point of clothes was line a shallow fall of cotton over childish hips or a coat ruled sharply, shoulder to hem but that line was marred by hands and all the most amazing things that traveled in them to one's pockets goitering the shape of grace with gifts - a puffball only slightly burst five links of watch chain passed secretly in class a scrap of fur almost as soft as one's own skin. Offended at my pouching of her Singer stitch my mother sewed my pockets up with an overcast tight as her mouth forbidding all but the line. I've lived for years in her seams - falls of fabric smooth as slide rules my hands exposed and folded from all gifts. And it is only recently, with raw fingers which still recall the warmth and texture of presents that I've plucked out stitches sharp as urchin spines to find both hands and pockets empty. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BLOSSOM, FR. SONGS OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE STANZAS TO THE PO by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE THREE LITTLE KITTENS (A CAT'S TALE, WITH ADDITIONS) by ELIZA LEE CABOT FOLLEN WHEN HE WOULD HAVE HIS VERSES READ by ROBERT HERRICK TIME TO BE WISE by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL, FR. ROSALIND [ROSALYNDE] by THOMAS LODGE ON A CURATE'S COMPLAINT OF HARD DUTY by JONATHAN SWIFT |