Crochet
written by: Laurel Benjamin
You are crocheting fog
in the backyard so buttery
roses mother grows
will turn yellowred,
an in-between like the mezzo-
soprano she blasts
on the radio. In fact you are crocheting
your life to fill in
empty spaces—it’s not enough
she taught you to read—
no yarn will pull her in
from full time work.
You wait on father to return
from nights counseling,
crocheting a briefcase
containing notes for
how to love you.
You crochet memories
of Christmas when you’re Jewish,
perfectly shaped triangle
with cats underneath. Still,
the picture of yourself
doesn’t fit. Then you crochet
the bay, mountain on the far side,
and an invisible train horn
blaring, metal wheels
metal track, fifteen minutes by the clock
solid steady
repairing your parents’ absence.
At night the doorknob turns,
ghost of family who came
in 1920 entering your room
asking to be crocheted
in Yiddish, language
you have no yarn for
but somehow in gestures
a place is filled in,
every stitch.
- Crochet - January 8, 2025
- The Forceps of War - March 10, 2024
