Inheritance

I unravel the skein of lilac mohair
and slip a knot onto the hook,
painstakingly learn from the Youtube clip
how to chain and double crochet.

This wool I weave comes from my grandmother,
a clever woman belittled by her husband.
Working, I sense the solace she found here,
the gashes she knit together, as she stayed and did not leave.

Something delicate forms under my fingers,
like a lacy veil for a sad-eyed bride.
She made me a blanket, once,
strawberry pink, rough, I’ve kept it.

Her losses are not mine. They’re buried
beneath dry pines in Komga * cemetery.
She yellowed, died, in a crumpled bed of rage,
her window opening onto a summer garden, impervious.

But let her passing be a sampler

for the wounded child, watching from the corner.
I link my stitches, swallowing no love
like bile, or poison; craft a small healing.

* small town in the Eastern Cape, SA