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2002-04-23 | 6:31 p.m.

The fabric-store lady spoke out of the side of her mouth, like a gangster.
"Use Stitch Witchery. No one will know the difference."
Bottle-black hair, smoker's voice. "I was a tailor for 35 years."

In the car, the patches popped off like excuses,
fluttered toward the open windows like butterflies.
The girls caught them in gloved hands and passed them forward
where, in the front seat, in the dark, by the light of the silvery moon, I tacked them down

with pins and clumsy, looping stitches.
Now the patches flopped and curled.
I wasn't sure how much it mattered,
but surely someone would notice--
the troop leader, the co-leader, the leader who sang patriotic
songs wholesome and bell-clear as a Lemmon sister.

We were late, patch-late,
each of us with a hand in the small of a girl's back, pushing them toward the stage. Their leader stood up and crooked her hand at them, our girls hesitant and gangly and six years old: "Here, here!" she mouthed.

We sat down way in the back, an island unto ourselves
with a hundred Girl Scout vests in my face
perfectly patched
patches lined up like tombstones and wildflowers
in a cafeteria-green and brown field.

Recessed lighting dimmed by an unseen hand
and my all-American girls with their snub noses lit
by the ceremonial candles in their hands
swore oaths to pin this and patch that and red, white, and blue.
During the inspirational parts, the watered-down religion, the last-refuge-of-a-scoundrel,
he and I only exchanged glances, smooth as glass.

We had agreed: give the girls the chance to be ordinary
so they will have something to rebel against later.
If we don't, he worried, they'll join a cult.
But it's a long swim up the mainstream,
and I was never much of an athlete.


Afterward, it was something about the ironing board
I shoved it aside and he threw the bag of sewing things at me
needles and pins, sure
but what hit me in the face was scissors
heavy, steel scissors
he forgot they were in there
he told me later
I grabbed my purse and walked out the front door
speechless with indignation, didn't even say goodbye to the kids
just me and my shabby discount-store purse, peeling Hush Puppies purse
I deserve a better purse than this.

Walked up the street
self-conscious because nobody walks in this town except
poor people, crazy people, and criminals.
Imagined someone watching me,
wondering, "What is she doing?"
Good question.

Thought about where I could go and what I could do
run away, apartment, minimum wage--
It sounded great.
But there was a big crack in the sole of my shoe.
Can't walk all the way to my new life tonight.
So I walked around the block once
then let myself in by the side gate, quietly
and very quietly sat down on the back porch steps
and cried and sighed and waited and listened
to the sound of my family enjoying their leisure time
with the computer and a board game
nice and easy as you please
as if I had been dead for years.

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