A Thing with Stitches

The day comes unannounced, inexplicable,

when you can no longer assemble your face


        into a blue-&-white bouquet,

color diffusion creating the illusion of light.


The day comes when the illusion of light

is not enough


to sustain a house of cards, a score of men,

a girl going in & out of the yellow field.


Islands float in milk, magma: volcanic rock

I need you     to sharpen into something


                that can cut food

or kill me. I do believe it makes sense, bee,

a kind I am too far away to see.


You understand. What will save us is a thing

with stitches, stored in the dark. The land marches on

in just one direction, but how can I follow it


without feet.     How can I hold it without hands.

Lucy Wainger's poems appear or will appear in Poetry, Best American Poetry 2017, and elsewhere. She studies creative writing at Emory University.