Old Girl: Self-Portrait in Wool
In magnetic air, my self or shadows of it,
the body a ballast for the head,
as I, red mask dragging an afghan body,
knit a new face from cosmic wool.
A three-dimensional life is formed by attitude.
Others want what I have, so I must sheer
invisible sheep, comb and card
the fleece, twist the thread, ply needles,
then teach them how to do the same.
All done with mist and a mirror or two.
Still, they can't expect to touch flesh.
This wool is thin, soft but without affect
and, its anxious thread tugged by
an unseen hook, keeps on unravelling.