knitting needles 

metal clink, the same voice 
as claws on tile floor 
i watched you move 
the knitting needles like teeth--
fangs flashing in the thread bound book
of your mouth-- the notebook pages
where you jotted shopping lists &
kept track of stitches. 
i became obsessed with stealing
your needles for myself-- waiting
for your blue car to leave the driveway
in the morning. the canvas knitting
bag sat on the fourth chair at 
the breakfast bar-- the fourth 
sibling. i'd carefully rummage inside
to touched the different needles-- 
the shiny lavender ones & the thick
bamboo pair for the gaping stitches 
in the green & blue poncho. all this time
you were the quiet sorcerer-- keeping
an assortment of wands to yourself. 
i imagined you up late after putting
my brothers & i to bed, feet up on the
coffee table-- a knitting needle in each
hand to conduct the room back to order.
charming the sink into washing itself
& feeling bad about letting itself 
get go so awry, admonishing the 
blue & yellow plates when they let
soapy water slosh on the red kitchen floor.
i tried the same magic alone on summer days--
going out to the backyard where 
the sunflowers passed away years earlier. 
tapping the earth with the knitting needle
the soil gave way to pumpkins & a bush
of cherry tomatoes. i filled my pockets 
with them before they disappeared. eating
on the porch i told the garden hose to
spray a light mist in the driveway, enough
to refract rainbow in the water droplets.
i want to know if you still practice magic 
or if the knitting needles have long run dry--
back then they seemed unstoppable, 
twitching with the energy of our 
tangled green house. do the socks knot
themselves still or is that you up late
by the washing machine? dad mows the lawn now
in long crooked stripes & i tapped a 
knitting needle on the edge to try to 
trim it for him. nothing happened. same with
the kitchen table-- envelopes & magazines 
unwilling to budget even for the demands of 
enchantment. maybe it's me then, i could
be just too old. i sat there at the break fast
counter trying every single needle, even the
ones attached to each other that you used 
for knitting winter hats. 
your car pulls in the driveway. i'm 8 
& rushing over the canvas bag to put them back.
all those years did you know 
that i took them for spell crafts 
in the hazy july shadow 
of the pine trees out back?