I am in the choice of pattern
and in my fantasy
of how the suit sketched in tweed
will be incarnated in velvet.

I am in the tissue pieces
laid precisely, pinned snugly
facing the right way
on the wrong side.

I am in the concentration of my tongue
and in the rhythm of my heart
as scissor blades
crunch, crunch, crunch.

I am in the synapses that pass
from instruction sheet to brain
to fingers, in spaces
filled with the conductive medium of faith.

I am on the rolling highway of stitches, even and perfect
seams, smooth and straight
then in the pin-prick that sees
something is wrong: I must rip and return.

I am in the mirror
reflecting shoulders that bag
a waist too tight
and a skirt that sags

Then at last, after being in gathers, easements
overcast hems and under the hot iron
I am, snug and snazzy,
in this garment I have made.

This poem first appeared at poetsonline.org. and subsequently appeared in Vogue Patterns Magazine (December 2010/January 2011 issue).
Used here with the author's permission.