Rachel Korn | Poems | STITCHINGS

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Stitchings

Every hour needles pierce the heart,
And make it bleed like the deep crimson of red silk
On cool, white-linen flesh.

And a flower newly stitched,
Sprouts on the grave of the new-born day.

And pillows and clothes all scattered about,
Stare from every corner in the room,
While, on the narrow, sagging shoulders of young women,
Sit heads
With mad and vacant eyes.
In the field of yellow corn-stalks on a velvet blanket,
Lie our youthful years in hidden faces,
While time goes on
Night and day,
And on the blanched, worn hands of women,
Blue-violet veins
Are like marks of solitude and sorrow.

Translated by Edward Ginsburg

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