The Cuff
For Rose
I spread the cuff on the scrubbed table.
Three inches of openwork torn straight
from the button back, edges still soft
with the oil of your skin.
My mouth finds the end of the new silk,
wets it, pushes it through the needle's eye.
Needle. Thimble. The last finger of scotch.
I begin.
The silk could have gone entirely –
one harder pull and the sleeve with it.
I make the first stitch, pull it snug.
Rain ticks the glass then quits.
You strip again.
The lace tears free, shirt gone, your palm
flattening the soft pouch of my belly
where sweat starts in the crease, my thighs open.
I feed the needle and draw the long silk
after it until the two edges of the tear
meet again under my hands as if they had
never parted. Your mouth at my throat.
The needle slows in my hand.
You never wait for the last button.
I leave the small loose thread...
A dog barks once two streets over.
I knot and bite the thread free.
I press the finished cuff to my mouth,
breathe once into the mended lace.
My thighs.