Basta

By SARA LONDON

Stitch in Time
is tired of saving Nine,

weary of forever
stepping up, peachy, alert

and prissy, the reliable fixer,
patcher, elbow-

thigh-, knee-, ass-
rescuer, savior swift

with dowdy dexterity,
steely purpose and

doubling pep.
Oh so tired

of Time—the whispering
vast, the winds’ splitting

infinities, the centuries’
eruptions, feasts

of error and woe. Stitch
is dying for a tacit

measure, a whole sabbatical
seamless and teeming

with sleep. Let them
do the binding—the straggling,

shaggy Nine—let the hinder
guard make their sluggish

way forward, heel-draggers,
bumblers who can beat

no one and can’t even walk
the chalk, make them

tack a while in Samaritan
syntax, tending, nursing,

salvaging—so that Stitch
may dream the slip, love

the long drool in some
unplowed pasture, lick

the loitering of blessed
raggedy-assed lastness and

thrumming disaster. She’s
earned it, she’s spent her

spool, this cursed solver,
long-eyed and fibrous—

let her loose from this
curious contract;

the whip, it’s beastly,
—it’s time.

Sara London is the author of The Tyranny of Milk. She has taught at Mt. Holyoke, Smith, and Amherst College.

[Purchase your copy of Issue 09 here.]

Basta

Related Posts

july 2020 poetry feature

July 2020 Poetry Feature: Steven Leyva and Elizabeth Scanlon

STEVEN LEYVA
Get down to the smallest birthright / I cannot claim: say beignets / and doesn’t the stutter of hot oil start / to sizzle the small plates of memory? / Faces powdered with sugar, no thought / to whose ancestors cut which cane, sing / a hymn of “mmm, mmm, mmm.”

Illustration of dolphin

July 2020 Poetry Feature: Loren Goodman

LOREN GOODMAN
In these last hours / Of the Passover Seder / It is said by the higher / Chasidic Scholars that time / Loses its essence and that / We are at least once, with / The help of memory (at this / Time “even the future can be / Remembered”) able to defeat / It. Something to do / With the wine.

Skyline cropped

Goddamn

MORIEL ROTHMAN-ZECHER
The chunk of the ball / On the cracked blacktop / And our torsos so covered / In sweat nearby the sea / Swells and the smell seeps / Into our hair and the air / Turns into night all around us / And the pebbles of the ball / Still tickle our palms as smoke / Trickles into our lungs...