I wish you knew how
to replace your own shirts’
lost buttons—
thread a needle-eye
like a poor camel heaven bound,
work the shank with twine,
tie up the four-hole, binding points
of entry and intrigue.
Your first button at four,
buttoned, unbuttoned,
a practice as everlasting as taxes.
First, place the button
onto your tongue
like a Eucharist wafer.
Imagine it is a body.
I wish you knew
what it was like to go to church
before one could buy holy supplies
and chat with God online.
The tender button
has spiritual dimensions:
the underside smooth as porcelain,
the top curved, or convex,
nubby, or shaped like a flower.
Before buttons were molded of plastic
like everything else
they were made from Gaia’s elements—
wood, shell, antler, bone, ivory,
stone, pottery.
That growing in skill—
growing bored—
growing commercial,
we made buttons
of metal, glass,
papier-mache, and cloth.
Still, how uncommon
the common button.
It leaves everything done—or undone.
Next, press the needle
into your thumb whorl
until you can tell point and eye by touch.
The needle should pass through silk
without a mark.
Taste the thread ends
for fray
or stiffness.
Blind the eye with a finger—
a spot of flesh
and aim.
Thread. Double knot.
I wish you knew how to measure twice,
cut once,
to fix before things go wrong—
how to mend to last.
