the hum click slower and faster
of the sewing machine, the needle a big fish
feeding from the bottom
of my mother’s hand, the tiny light
like a glass eye hovering over her
fingers
my mother unfolds the transparent
human-colored paper, slides off my shirt
so she can wrap the paper around me
mark space with a pencil
I hold my breath
the hair on my arms
rising
her hands on me
the woman who tucks herself smaller
than the hidden kittens
invisible when I call
my skin as sensitive as the gap
of a missing tooth
if I move my eyes or sigh
she’ll remember I‘m here
