fabric

i rode my bike between wing beats
of summer corn to the fabric store. 
i did not have to be barefoot 
but sometimes i was. i think i wanted
to be like the mennonite kids 
who played & worked out back.
the pedals on my bike had metal grips 
so i had to push with just the pads of my feet.
bone & sun. gravel between toes. sweat on my eyebrows.
through middle school, i sewed all the time.
there was a machine set up for me 
upstairs by the window. threads of light
across rows of stitches. i was never very good.
i was more of a fabric collector than anything.
wandering in the aisles of colors,
i found thick fake leather & white fur
& tea kettle prints & shimmering scraps.
tucked the bolts of fabric beneath my arms.
i carried as many as i could, convinced that
if i set the fabric down i might not
be able to find it again. 
watched the women at the counter 
as they measured a yard or two yards for me.
they would fold each precious tongue. 
spoke to each other in german
& i did not know what they said.
at home, i kept the cloth in a trunk. 
so many of them i would never use. 
it was like keeping alternate realities. i did not have
many friends. my fingers were like hummingbirds.
my round face. my black hair. 
i used my own the perfect silver scissors to cut 
through each portal. i never bought 
a single pattern. sewed together roads.
knees to comets. returned for more
each week on my bike. somehow there would
always be a fabric i hadn't noticed before.