Contributor: C.V. Ellis

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Stubby nicotined fingers
moved rhythmically,
crochet crooked for hours,
possessing a deftness
that belied their round
and rotund posture,
they mesmerized
as colored thread
snaked past her
chubby index finger,
a hummingbird
dining on nectar
forming Bind-offs,
Single-knits, Trebles
as Pineapple Patterns,
Diamonds, Snowflakes,
Granny Squares gave
slow birth to doilies,
afghans, blankets in
pinks, greens, yellows,
blues; a rustic rainbow
of multi-chromatic rayons
bedecked out chairs, sofa
mismatched end tables.

Swirls of blue-grey haze
lingered lazily overhead,
a toxic incense expelled
from an endless chain
of cigarettes, the ever present
Melmac ashtray piled with
asymmetrical mounds of
crumpled paper cylinders
as aged tobacco leaves
were inhaled in ritualistic
endeavor to keep
her demons at bay.
All projects in her life
thrived in cyclic spurts,
filler material to tide her
between...episodes.

A manic madness possessed
her as she crafted for hours
in weathered armchair,
worn from years of placing
elbows and ass
just so, calloused feet
draped over the edge
while over-the-top
soap opera heroines,
toothy game show hosts,
ads for dutiful housewives
invaded the room in varying
shades of grey blaring, droning,
an endless parade of characters,
caricatures, hand models
for soaps that paid
for the soaps.

All habits, every hobby
had a primed directive:
fill the unseen void,
deny the secret truths
of yesterday's patronly
violations, suppress
darkling recollections,
the unwanted recall
of nighttime visitations.
All were archetypes for the
cycles of self-destruction
that claimed her in the end.
There was a prefigured predictability
to it all as days turned to weeks
turned to months 'til time
rolled round for another breakout,
to seek oblivion in a glass.

Then a different pattern emerged,
one of self-immolation as threads,
needles, yarns all quietly awaited
her return...as did we all.


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Charles is a survivor of so many things the telling would fill a book.