I push the needle
through your hands and feet,
sew you into a lovely quilt,
a shroud for myself,
the thread of original desire
twisted into binding knots.
I make you an artifact
to warm me, shield me
from the failure of my love.
“The design is from God,” I lie,
ignoring the blood crying out.
And in your judgment
with perfect forgiveness
you wrap me in yourself.
I can’t cloak myself
in this wretched thing,
can’t put it down.