Written in my Thur night Writers' Guild in undergrad |
There's a quilt hanging in my window that reminds me of 'everyday use' it is but it isn't because it's being a curtain, just an everyday thing but its framed by my bookcase and dresser, sets off the room with its hints of springtime. An art piece, for sure. My grandmother tells me her grandmother made it, but her mother died senile, thought she was the queen victoria before she died, so I don't know if this quilt is ten years old or a hundred. But it makes me think of family legacy anyways cause who cares how far past grandma it goes, it still goes to grandma and that's heritage enough for me. I look at it hanging there and I think of short stories and churning butter and changing my name because i'm pretentious little shit and ma standing up to dee for the first time in ever It catches my eye at half past six and I wonder if each little ray on those many pointed suns has a story, has a lengend was there when grandfather (too many greats to count) put down that axe had been passed down too many of those seven sisters it's too pretty, too pristine I know my family history was never that tidy but each piece handcut? Each stitch handsewn? That I can buy, i'll believe we didn't i'll believe I see bloodspots from too many pricked fingers the stars in the corners hang a little bit crooked like my mother's daughter's smile X's and O's |