I thread needles red black blue fuchsia green
Tired of Public Competitions for Teaching Positions
I began to embroider each garment in my wardrobe
I arranged my doctoral diplomas and stowed them near the bookshelf
So they wouldn’t feel inferior
CV back to “0”
I file it
bury it
The market wants professionals at record speed
Titles and master’s degrees,
etc. in bulk
But we seamstresses are timeless
Poetry of my hands
Poetry of my eyes
I let go of “fine arts” and “belles lettres”
At last I realized they were out of my reach
I coined a new motto in silvery cut-out letters
on a black poster
TO
HYGIENIC POETS
And for now I don’t know what else to do
The bourgeoisie of the third world are ferocious murderers
And when they fall they take refuge in a lowly seamstress
Little woman of the house
Who only knows to sew and read
Read and sew
On the bus three women are embroidering
Two crochet pastillas
One knits
Nobody appreciates these arts anymore
My mother stitched all night
Her hands were her eyes
Did her eyes look at us?
She’s condemned to do things with her hands
Sew and sew
Embroider and embroider
Paint and grieve
Everything she couldn’t do
When death was only a word
I’ve often thought of jumping out the window
But then I get to writing or cutting paper and forget about it