The morning is a lace lesson, breath winds
up and over the bone bobbin of the bank.

We tramp to the big house, our work done:
frost stitches a lawn, sticks stars on potholes
I can’t step on for imagining days crack.

If ladies would roll in snow the day they marry
we’d have less to cart. And the pond wouldn’t stare,
a monocle over spaces and strands in my fingers,
already so big, so big for fine work.

Our hands are snowflakes melting too fast.
Mother drags on, a bellyful of pin small fingertips.
There’s a stitch in my side and, a moment,

I want to cry at bird footprints on a stone wall,
careless, letter like. I can’t read what they say.

Here, we can stop for a while, consider pips
in an apple, bubbles in our milk bottle, air on glass
washes our hands. We peer into the box at our veil.


Angela Readman
The Lacetakers by Angela Readman first appeared in Issue 2 of Bare Fiction Magazine (April 2014).

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