grandmother made is not beautiful.
Its design of scrap squares and
unwanted cloth is a lost battle,
a cluttered floor, a cracked confetti egg.
The unhappy plum backing pulls
the bright green border into abyss,
not sharp well-crafted edges.
The thread is failing, and the unsteady
hands that sewed it eft uneven tracks
between quilting stitches. The quilt is
functional at best, comely only
in a pioneering setting when its jeweled
hues would be envied by unpretty
Amish women who never sinned.
Knowing this and that it would
be the first thing I'd pull out of the fire,
I wonder how many people who love me
are stunned by my ill-fitting arms,
upset by my patchwork hairline and
diabetes body. How many regret
my hairless legs ad gappy smile,
but would still rescue me before
my most unattractive features
were corrected in the flames?