Crochet

Wren Greyson

Photo by cottonbro studio, from Pexels

Yarn glides across my index finger

as it’s pulled taught against the needle,

creaking polymers against metal,

like the burn when I craft too quickly

or when I move too slow and ruin the creation.

A dull pinch in my skin leaves a round scar,

a callous proving the routine.

The clinical metal is cold against my palm,

Filled with gold-tinged medicine.

The fabric drapes over my legs, warm as I work.

Music covers the creaking plastic,

protects my stomach from turning

at the puncture sound.

The truth is my mother tried to teach me once,

but five years passed before I taught myself instead,

when I found YouTube more helpful than family,

more reasonable to my difference.

Five years with the interest tied in my chest,

until I felt alone enough, safe, enough,

to type in incognito mode ‘am i trans’, and ‘how to crochet’.

When she asks how it’s going, I answer the same way.

It hurts less every time.