We go down and out in one motion.

I remind her I said I wouldn’t stay but She made an extra sausage roll
by mistake. She needles down her nose. I pick it up.
She wears the glasses prescribed for her sewing. For her ‘close work’.
I ask if she’s done much today. You don’t think puff pastry takes time?
She scoffs. She takes me by the sleeve of my flannel, brings me out of the doorway
and into the kitchen. Don’t be such a stranger.
She laughs. I’ve brought my body in the only part of my wardrobe that came from here.

Preeeetty close. That looks better.

Interesting it wasn’t your sister, wanting to make her own clothes.
The kettle pops. She pours a pink mug. Its ‘gay’ scrawl worn away.
Mind, it was just that quitting dance made her swell. Her chest
stretched so many shirts.
If my shirt is caught on the cliff face I don’t touch it.
You’re stick thin. She bends her thumb and index finger round my wrist. I gulp
against her press. This is why I want you home. To feed you.

You go right back into the hole you first went to.

She brings out the old machine. Dusty pink. I thank her and lean down.
A hair of white still caught in the thread cutter. I don’t want to knock it to this floor.
There’s something. There’s something bright and pink in there.
I plant the thought that it’s just the back hem of my t-shirt and pull it down.
She’s proud of me, returning to my roots.
I was such a girly girl. Her sewing fingers reach into my hair
the way she unravels the thread from its reel. When are you going to grow this back out?
I flick through answers she might like. She’s been waiting.

kind of doing the same stitch on top of each other

She reminds me that skirts are the easiest to make. That I should make
a couple, a few, let her know. She reminds me she’s always there
to teach me. To Always start with a backstitch. That Each stitch
needs to be tight-knit, to Clamp the two sides of fabric together. Like you didn’t break the
moment of a lovers’ kiss goodbye. I tell her
I should really be going. She offers me tea. I tell her
I really should be going. She’s making tea
anyway for herself. But really she’s watching her sugar. So she shouldn’t.
I tell her I have something I need to cook at home. I don’t tell her I’m hungry. Pop.
Your sister misses you. I slip my shoulders into the straps. She’s back later.
Another visit, then? Another visit.
I thank her for the tea.

and come out.

About the Author

jesse smith (they/he) is a queer poet and reviewer from the uk, with a BA English Literature with Creative Writing and MA Creative Writing (Poetry) from the University of East Anglia. their poems and reviews are published or forthcoming with Stone of Madness, Delicate Friend, Eggbox Publishing, UEA New Writing, Public Menace, honeyfire lit, and Gutslut Press. they are the founder and poetry reader of the gamut mag. find them on Twitter and Instagram @jessesmithpoet.