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Remembering My Mother Sewing
   I.
   Evenings I'd find you
     bent over the dining room table
        like a surgeon over a disembodied angel.
   Under five yellow lights
     you would rearrange
        the wispy wings, pin them
   to the floral cotton,
     the blue corduroy -
        the common material our bodies might fit.
   This was the beginning
     of the reconstruction. You worked
        with a quiet determination,
   the knuckles of your long fingers
     whitening
        as you applied the tiny teeth
   of the tracing wheel
     against the delicate skin.
        Later,
   after your careful unpinning,
     the anticipated sundering
        and airy uplift -
   forgive me my moments of doubt -
     the mortal fabric
        would lie there, yes,
   bearing the marks....
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