Eye of The Needle
written by: Nichole Turnbloom
I have forgotten the recipe for
forgiveness. I taste revenge
at the lips as the blood
of a litter of pups. The baby
appears dead, but is sleeping
on the pull-out-couch.
I worry of my parents. The sound
of my mother falling. In a
reoccurring dream a thread
is attached to everything and everything
is for the taking. I fill a bag with a
beautiful wool coat, a dress
like a painting. At the department
store doors the thread is
severed when I round
the corner, it has reattached.
The world is red. I walk for miles:
around tree trunks, up staircases,
down escalators the thread accompanies.
Underground, I find a pair of
heavy scissors. The snapped thread
sends a tremor through body,
but it soon rejoins end to end. I am alone.
I can hear voices through the door. One
ear open to the room the other presses
into the pillow accentuates
my syncopated breathing.
The pillow is damp.
- Eye of The Needle - February 16, 2025
