“Butterfly Stitch (Spoken Word)” – Poem By: Heather Whitley Gibson

Fire has no reason, it’s a morning loop
like a fine old hand held
needed touch, gently holding
a butterfly stitch
can’t help to be rich

space removed, a window cellar, broken room
a remnants and regrets
cherished
the brown bottle, tipped over, tears staining
cloth belts, a rolling vein, tobacco smelling shirts
held together
by my grandmother’s
butterfly stitch

her loving touch
custom made rain coats, spring dresses
hand made by worn factory hands
made in an hour
any color
just for the afternoon
she sewed, my sister & I watched, the needle crawling
a fast silver fish

boxed and preserved, those patterns
laid over by plastic, like a couch
rolled and tied, our sleeping body bags
meant to be saved for a rainy day

my grandfather drinking from his grandfather cup
over spilled coffee grains, scattered like ball-bearings
we eyed our glass marbles
as the game began
Boston Red Sox vs. N.Y. Yankees
that old T.V. furniture piece covered
with dollies, Lorna Doones, and pouched tobacco

our grandfather ate powdered scones
still telling horny polish jokes
taking after his father, the Italian stallion
tending to their Sicilian home
open bags of Cheetos, three girls ate
orange fingers

overtime sudden death forfeit
cigarette still lit, an arm chair ashtray
new white Cadillac in the driveway
consciously, picked up fork
the road, remarks behind, ended
in that dark garage

shaking, messing around, shaking
foraging boxes, bags of Hershey kisses and old canvasses
pulling our hair, remaking a face
hearing our grandmother singing
wooden old dart board delivers
across the blue sky-top of the page
a straight line to Christmas, a blue crayon pathway
a broken red glass ball to be hung
a kept fake tree

en-caused, Jasper Johns-poster flag
all American
remembered again and again
hung on the wall, memories, played over
a plastic bow and arrow
aimed for that single red dot
like Christ, over doorways
catholic American dream

my grandmother sat, holding her cross
with my hand, explaining god, to her best
patting her arm hair down
when her goose bumps raised
asking if we wanted another
cook-kee
telling me about periods on Sundays

crosses everywhere
doorways
they were revolutionary’s
in every way, us
Polish-Italian-Chickasaw-Swedish-Blackfoot
mix-down

my mother sewed herself a P.H.D.
my father, an atheist doctor
humanist, writer of plays and pain
my uncle, the gourmet cook, London Aids
my aunt, cookie maker, heads the mental illness foundation
my cousin’s, two writers, a painter, a pianist, a sculptor
my sister the socialist social worker
hand me downs

all of us volunteers of my grandmother’s butterfly stitch
a morning loop, needing touch, gently held pens
all of us write something down
our memories can’t help
but to be rich

Take A Listen To “Butterfly Stitch”