I am the accidental heiress
to my great aunts’ dish towels and tea
cloths. So many tiny stitches—
how could one dry dishes, or do whatever
one does with tea cloths, on the back
of such artistry? The seven earnest cats
performing their household tasks, one for each day
of the week—how to touch water to that fine creweled
fur? Rumple those hand-embroidered whiskers? Would one
ever risk the linen squares trimmed with crocheted blue
and yellow lace beneath a pot of Darjeeling?
What to do with the trumpet-vine dresser scarf? I hate
to sew, myself—but if I don’t use them, who will?
My only child is the ragged edge of time.