Squinting through the eye of a needle, my mother
stitched her way out of scarcity. A master
of the remnant bin, bobbins, bias binding, trim.
I’d shuffle behind her on trips to Hickeys,
lost in the thread of her haberdashery speak.
The purr and pause of the Singer after hours,
called from my room she’d measure my truth,
with a snake of black-and-white tape, curves
and corners to the quarter inch. My scaled
silhouette traced in blue chalk, paper tacked to cloth,
cleaved apart with orange Fischer scissors.
Simplicity patterns that promised, suave cartoon
girls with hands in their pockets; white-work broderie
anglaise, blouson jumpsuit, navy blazer. Joining seams,
before each shindig nights spent foot pressed to pedal,
turning me out as she best could, in her home sewn clothes.
Sinéad Griffin has been published in Poetry Ireland Review, The Irish Times, The Marrow Poetry, The Honest Ulsterman, Abridged and elsewhere. Her work featured in the Poetry Jukebox at IMMA. One of the editors at The Four Faced Liar, she’s currently the recipient of a Dublin City Arts Bursary.
More work by Sinéad Griffin
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