Piecing

Days went by before mother asked
Where is that silk?

and I, nesting in her yellow quilt
traced the pieces, counted stitches.

Father brought two satin scarves from France,
one splashed paisleys, purple, gold,

for Mother—yes, the perfect match
for her evening gown, her beaded bag.

For me, the school-girl blue.
Hers matched my iridescent taffeta,

would cling to me as skin, floating
at the senior prom with Roger Rose

as the mirrored globe turned slow, scattering
green and rose confetti-light around, around.

Her open drawer, the scented scarf,
gone without a word

simply slip-streamed in the dark, fluttering
wing-like as silk will do, sliding into moon-leaf shadow.

I tried to say I borrowed it
but fingering the quilt threads wondered if

what bound me safe would snap—
if truth was worth the telling.

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