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Bee Quilting
by Amy D. Hayes
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It's been in me for days
--
I am a quilt.
This patch here, over my knee,
is my great-grandmother. She is sewn
with her hair stolen back
from the Nazis.
And this patch, the red one that throbs,
this is my aunt. Sometimes it
winks, the same way she did when she
snuck off to trade kisses
with her girlfriend.
The frilly one, yes -- that one, with
lace, was contributed by my
father's mother. She likes pretty things.
I remember her only when I drink
English tea. She's just so hard to see,
around that big crazy one, the one
without stitches -- everyone knows
her as "Zoom," but her obituary
will read "grandmother." If you
look closely, you will see
Spanish olives and a very
brown woman
who never smiles.
The border? Yes, America, it's you.
You are grey, and while I
pick at your threads to connect them
elsewhere, I will remind you
(this is said loudly)
that I am a quilt
sown and torn by women
who refuse to remember your name.
Copyright © 1999
Amy D. Hayes
All Rights Reserved
-previously published in Drowning |
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| Amy D. Hayes is currently attending The University of
Michigan and working toward a degree in Comparative Literature. She is learning to play piano, enjoys playing Russian
composers on her bass trombone, in the wee hours of the morn, and is close friends with a rabbit named Cypress.
She loves to read and is currently entranced by the poetry of Lorca and Rimbaud. |
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