In my darker hours I like to imagine a knitting club
where no one is allowed to smile. I don’t knit, but
this is how my mind works: I think of tigers, consider
our struggle, raise my hand as if asking a question
when I’m not. We sit in a circle, our needles held
like dangerous weapons which at any moment may explode,
fire chunks of lead at suspicious looking strangers, or pierce
the flexed muscle and flesh of our club members. This
is why we don’t wear wool but instead cover ourselves
in body armor. As we knit we look at each other with eyes
like burning cigarettes, so determined to live our dreams.
If we had money we would speak of our investment portfolios,
but since we have none we remain silent. We are ice falling
from mountains, moons tearing away from old orbits.
When we have finished a scarf or a sweater, socks or
a tricolor dickey we do not declare “At last!” or “There,
I am done, look at this!” That wouldn’t be right, and
that’s not what this knitting circle is about. In the old days
we would run around the avenues and never take time
to plan our escape, never contemplate the next move
once we’d binded off our stitches. But the times have changed.
There are windows to be opened, fresh air to be let in.
And when the beautiful noises of the outside world
enter the confines of our inner space, we stretch our arms
and stand in the moment’s fleet gleamings, remembering
that we know how to dance. Our movements are fast as a
purl stitch, and we shine like metal in the late morning light.
Photograph by Jose Padua