Travaille

Travaille
Memere’s hands, mains mine,
mains of my mother, lifting me,
casting me down, gripping hard,
were never still, jamais encore,
Memere qu’elle fait belle,
Maine hands never still,
Crotchets fields of Queen Anne’s lace doilies
Beaux champs bloom
Where I’m planted,
JesusMaryJoseph,
I’ve shown you a thousand times,
Ma petite, ma jeune fille.
Joi to be,
Memere decorates ma jejune self avec
Rainbow afghan chevrons,
Tries to make me mistress of the intricacies
Of fleur-de-lis three needle mysteries,
Passing history on through
Embroidery hoops and quilting rings
My petite poor parle anglais
Fingers cannot mimic, cannot trace.
My doigts displaced fine beading,
Quelle stupide! Vite! Vite.
Not good for anything finer
Than winding skeins around
The future auteur hands.
Pearls before, jamais but not pour moi
Spending a day learning Toulouse single chain
une entire ball of fuzzy golden yarn. Depeche toi!
Encore! Encore! Her bouche firm,
Mouth sewn up tight,
knitting needles click clack
Her disapproval,
Thinks my failure, Mon Dieu,
you kids make me crazy,
I’m too old for this,
mocks her. Who’s the crazy one?
Hooked and needled, Notre Dame, Notre Dame,
s'il vous plaît, I just wanted to sit next to her,
je voudrais, je voudrais but
my prayers went une answered.
Memere said all those books had ruined me,
Said my stuck-up convent fingers thought themselves
Too fine for useful work, never believed
I saw poésies in her hands, her travaille
My travail until I knit one, pearl none,
take up this pen
To justify these idle hands.