The day I pretended to learn to knit
my mother-in-law trained chilblain
fingers to cast-on, blue skin against the
click clack of metal needles
I didn’t tell her that my aunt already
knitted heaven and earth
was paid in silver dollars and rum
laughing like a pirate sailing the mobius strip
until the day the phone stopped ringing
those newspaper men, always pushing you
against the wall, pulling out too late, cutting back
paring plummy prose into tidy stockinette
my mother kept her loops small
I called it an uncertainty, a storm pattern
smooth, hard worn, in silk, mohair and wool
a skin I couldn’t pass on, paca de seda
I went for neutrals myself, watching for signs
greys, beiges, dark brown, with bucolic names like Barn Owl
Wood Dove, Appalachian Stone
as if the country-inspired warmth of that
scarf could provide any protection
wrapped tight against a coming blizzard
when my call finally came.