Skip to main content
SearchLoginLogin or Signup


"Momma always said those needles were receptors"

Published onDec 13, 2023

Photo by Pavel Danilyuk:

Nona’s magic was woven between needles.
Plop her in a desert and she’d find twined twigs
and before she’d broken a sweat, from the very air
fabric would begin to appear. Drop her on a glacier
miles from the nearest Yarn Barn and before you’d
heavy-hiked a stitch into your sweaty side, some
slack fabric frippery would be forming a snow sail
or some such well-intended but mostly useless thing.

Momma always said those needles were receptors
for any word said within the house or porch, antennae
tuned to whatever frequency emitted from her booming
beacon of illicit teenage angst or could even sense a
snuck cookie’s telling tink when the lid touches
the earthenware jar. I never got the wooden spoon
from Momma’s tales, but that absence doesn’t make
me doubt the existence of the bruises when I see
her flinch so frequently when in that woman’s house.

Zebulon Huset is a high school teacher, writer and photographer. He won the Gulf Stream 2020 Summer Poetry Contest and his writing has appeared in Best New Poets, Rattle, Meridian, North American Review, New York Quarterly, The Southern Review, Fence and many others. He publishes the prompt blog Notebooking Daily, and edits the journal Coastal Shelf.

No comments here
Why not start the discussion?