Voices

I would be sitting there idly twirling
the strawberry perched on top
of the plump red pincushion
while she was hunched over the singer

filigreed foot pedal
making rhythmical clicking sounds
as sky blue fabric folded
in creamy waves under the needle

mother’s voice soft and dreamy
answering someone only she could hear
a revelation to me that anyone else
could have a surging inner-life

when I had always assumed
each stitch every sigh
was meant for me alone

Janice Bowen says, “When poetry found me, I was lollygagging — leading an easy life—free of rewrites or searches for the right combination of words happily painting and drawing when I felt like it. Now I’m being led around on an invisible leash by poetry.”