beyond the seams

It happens every time—
seed
to sapling
to struggling romantic progeny—
and to every thing there is this season.

So then how does it surprise? and catch quick
adrenalous breaths in my feeble fetal lungs?

It happens, you said.
So it does,
and it takes,
and it squeezes,
and it builds, sways, creaks, fluxes, takes, ruptures, sings,
it does,
and every time the unknown pattern
is sewn by a recognizable hand,
is added to the pile.

The pattern-maker,
the master seamstress,
pioneer of the temporary garment:
she
(couldn’t you guess)
sews these new threads
in familiar treachery,
by sleight of hand,
adds to the quilt that started as a
twin
carried you through college
doubling
(never coupling)
into the weaker royal of your young professionalism
so that you knew your bedfellow,
negative space,
knew to speak from a lack,
learned to be a lack,
learned to be lacking,
until he was no longer gone
but you were.