My mom sits, does it
without thinking cast on
while doing other things
slip one, knit two. I watch as
she tears it out. Starts over
cast on, back loop, slip, slip, slip.
I want to ask why, but I can’t.
She seems to prefer starting over
to finishing—the journey to the
destination continue, purl through
back loop. I think, maybe chasing handspun
perfection is the product—the only one
that matters anyway stockinette
stitch, reverse, repeat. Couldn’t be
the few hand-knit clothes I had.
By not asking out loud, I’ve become a participant
through back loop, together, skip, continue.
My ears become her hands, hypnotic rhythm,
as I watch the aluminum needles click.
I think about the mind’s tether,
our hands kept busy escaping.