Somebody to be afraid of—yes, perhaps—in times of peace—brutish, boisterous. I liked him all the more for that.
(I am so tired of quiet hills, and peaceful streets, white picket fences, waiting gates—)
But wounded, hurt—a creature whom the labor of my hands might soothe, refresh.
To think my fine and careful stitches might some day touch a man like that,
The childish stripe of pink and white—a silly color—wrap itself about him, close and comforting, filled me with pride.
To gaze ahead and see his fumbling fingers feeling in the little pocket I put on last.
Made my cheeks burn, as if he'd found my hand there and held it to his feverish lips.
He could have had it, and more—my lips too—if I knew how.
When the last button was in place and there were no more stitches I could take,
I hung it in my closet. It was beautiful, I thought.
I had never sewed for any man before.
But there it was complete. I had triumphed. Instinct taught me possibly.
I hung it in my closet, among my things, carelessly, as if it was its natural place.
