New Poem: Pieced, for DVerse Poets Poetics - Draft

 To participate in the marvelous narrative prompt posted at DVerse today, click here. 

Star of Bethlehem quilt by R.L. Bates, M.D.

 

 Pieced

For we have seen his star in the east
and are come to worship him

Mathew 2:1-2

A 60’s winter, late in the decade

and we had brought in Elmer Callamer’s

pinon knots from the woodyard at the Y

where Highway 1 meets 287

(Old Elmer who had gone mad

and always told us the same story

of driving overland stage coach

being shot at by the Cheyenne

showing us the hypothetical arrow-hole

in his battered hat)

So that at sunrise on that one day

of the year kindled by love—in that house—

within that family

The fire threw up its golden exclamation marks

while we had our eggnog in Santa cups

spiked with a thread of brandy.

For a few hours when you looked out the window

it seemed that you were in Victorian England

on Christ’s Mass, that a proud patent leather horse

might trot by pulling a holly-decked carriage

at any moment

And lo, everyone was happy

Fully clothed and in their right minds.

While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks

the heavy Anglican version, played

and slow tears rolled down Dad’s face

When we plied him with a tie, a shirt

a drawing.

She, the arbiter and grand dame sans merci

Sat in the brocade platform rocker

downing one eggnog after another

pointing at the Matterhorn of gifts

under her imperial tree.

We approached deferentially, like

children biblically trained up

with green willow whips

and seated ourselves for the bestowal.

After she signaled to a great wrapped

bundle in the corner

I went to it and tore it open

and into my lap unfolded and spread itself

A Star of Bethlehem quilt

Whose spectacular chromatic

geometry called out into the morning.

Even though, when I held it to the light 

and could see the faint imperatives

encrypted in its batting

I was swept away in a surging

and tidal adoration of her for 

thinking of me

equipping me for the world

And my own household, then 

a room in an old A-frame in Rist Canyon

with other flower-children.

“It’s all hand-done,” she said.  “Look,

at the perfect piecing.  It took them months

and it’s at least fifty years old--an heirloom.”

Read between the lines O Daughter;

Thou art blessed among women:

The Star of Bethlehem now graces

Thy existence

And thou shalt never wander far from it

Shall hang it on every wall

Of every house

Where thou livest poorly or well

And thank me for all of thy days

That I thought thee worthy of this.

I did that too, taking the quilt with me

to Minnesota

back to Colorado, ever its

conscientious steward,

hanging and rehanging it in each

ritual nesting, until it begged me

To let it fade as she had

one autumn day, in washed-up pallor

and became so torn, narrative-heavy

it turned into one more thing

I was done trying to save.

cc

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews