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The Quilters
by Donna Wahlert

Our cluster of friends

sits in a circle
like quilters piecing
and tying together
each of our stories.

One re-threads her sorrow
for her stillborn son.
Another cuts and shapes
the thirty-nine days
of her daughter's brief life.
Still another stitches in the pain
of losing a grandchild.

I examine
my own stained satin square
‐tucked away for ten years now‐
of a baby who was becoming.
I stroke the patch with my hand
hold it against my cheek.
The grief is as near as my breath.
Slowly
I offer it to the circle of quilters.



Originally published: The First Pressing: Poetry of the Everyday


 

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