She bites off an arm’s length
of black thread.
Putting spool back into workbox
she licks the tip—
Elbows braced on cold windowsill
she holds needle to grey light
frowning pulls the strand through narrow eye
knots. She shakes a woolen trouser
from the mending pile. Ambrose

won’t be needing these
any more
where he is...

…one of the boys will.
Two edges taut
one end between teeth—bitter—
she pins, bastes.
An uneven mend, not right.
They’re fine twill weave worth
repairing—it won’t do
to waste such quality goods.
He would agree—
the haberdasher’s eye, his (hers the singer’s ear)

but there’s no asking. He’s
beyond reach.
Sterile coats at St. Peter’s, all

have control.
three-corner tear ravels
doesn’t yield to her firm hand.
She’ll have to darn
a bit.
Fill in.

- Mimi Jennings

Mimi Jennings taught English in the French school system, French in American public schools; takes the Dharma to prisons, participates widely in readings; with her mother won a St. Kate’s Creative Work award; writes sonnets, rap, blues—seen in publications of Trotters Café, Martin Lake and Sleet; believes we are all kin.