So simple but it’s taking me all day
to move the black silk fabric under
the little foot of the machine, my son
sweeping in and out of the room in his
red socks, asking again if I’m done
with it, if it’s finished yet
and I am already exhausted by the dark
folds in my lap, the needle piercing
the cloth over and over, the cloth giving
in to the tiny black stitches following
endlessly one after another, the day
loosening itself around the house, my boy
is so pleased when the cape is finally tied
around his neck, how he runs in
and out of each room, leaping from
beds, the couch, the chairs, shouting
for me to watch how it flies
behind him so black and shiny, so