All in by Ruth Williams

by Ruth Williams


Grandma's
stretched the quilt
around the hoop.

Her needle's rhythm,
a casual puncture.
Across the cloth, holes
you can hardly see.

I have always wanted to sew,
but my hands knotted,
couldn't follow.

When I was young,
I wished hard to be measured
by a man's hands.

A biblical knowledge,
no woman could explain to me.

The thread fills the space
the fabric makes for it, as if
it too had waited its whole life
for a grander design.

It wasn't what I thought.

Grandma says,
trace the tree’s motherline: my body
to my sisters' to my mother's to my grandmother's
just as the thread’s green spreads
to the leaves' jade tips.

Our shadows,
a knowledge
I can cool my need
beneath.

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Ruth Williams is the author of a poetry collection, Flatlands (Black Lawrence Press, 2018), and two chapbooks, Nursewifery (Jacar Press, 2019) and Conveyance (Dancing Girl Press, 2012). Currently, she is an Associate Professor of English at William Jewell College.