My knotted fingers held the bobbins and threads in place.
The stitch slipped to delete the spider’s crawl across the back-fabric,
and the threads twisted in burden.

Master promised cookies and milk, but
his nose twitched and he scratched his beard.

I had no stars or tinsel-work to braid,
for the shivers closed in on my blistered flesh.

Where is my mother? At my pluck, he struck
my wet cheek with a leathered hand.

“You mama no’ here,” he piped in with crooked teeth
as he peddled to Ladies and Lords with lacy eyes.
The bobbins were stained from runny red nose and weeping cracked lips.