Esther Gregory

University of Washington

In loving dedication to Andy,

these words are twisted into thin, white, sharp thread.

Thread I hold, searing across my palm,

tied to memory (heavy as dead things),

leaving the memory of a red line,

is too strong to snap. My hands will give-up blood.

Hungry desire pulsing in my blood.

So like my sister, whom comforts Andy,

delicately balancing on the line:

(one thread too sexual, too frigid one thread)

a trapeze artist in such pretty things;

a glass ornament that she caught in her palm.

There is no warm touch of palm-to-palm

for me; though heat is still carried by blood.

I’m missing (a towel) the precious few things

to ease my naked anxiety. Andy

pain mellows you to pulling at a thread.

And pain numbs me to walking aimless lines,

and now my mouth’s tired of those lines.

My hand yearns for round cup held in palm,

dangling teabag held by its tail of thread,

sweet water that is no warmer than blood,

time to ponder the drama ‘tween Andy

and her, to play with and sort out my things…

Oh, guilt for whimpering about my things.

Then, I should help her! I should stay in line!

I don’t know how to break up with Andy.

I’ll listen to you and I’ll rub your palms.

But there is still that longing in my blood…

still the wish to be connected with thread.

Maybe cause my hands are bloody with thread,

my heart is burdened by shadowy things,

soul cheapened by the penny taste of blood,

that I must toss away this weighted line.

With only emptiness to fill my palm.

I too have no comfort to give Andy.

This thread I throw out like a fishing line

to pull in the things that will soothe my raw palms.

Let the blood drain away… Know peace Andy.

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