I Am a Spider's Sewing Machine

My daughter broke her favorite vase

When I was in my 60’s

she stitched it back together

I bought her a sewing machine

feathery tongue toying with the translucent edge

When I found a reason to wear sunscreen

like obsidian arrows with a whiter finish

And I checked my step count

hunched over the smoked mangrove table

I mean, at least once in a while

from the late Cretaceous epoch

I never saw her use it

as she cried and cried and cried

The sewing machine I bought her

disintegrating every inch of obedient fiber

I want something sewn

each of her tears drowning me

I am a cricket down a whirlpool

with pieces of bark in a basin, stirring, stirring the water

I tell her sometimes

bits of flotsam floating on the surface

I ask her too

swirling, swirling into the pores of stone

When I’m feeling brave

suffocating the cajun and beef fat and imperial spices

Why she doesn’t use the gifts I buy for her

brought from who-knows-where and later

I gave her trinkets

she used the same stone basin

From the wealth I made

turned mortar and pestle smashing

I pester her enough and

plantain and yucca taking her rising creation and

I hear she doesn’t need it

slathered it into the cracks of her vase

I ask her why

until the mold took bloom

She says

holding the pieces together

“Spiders don’t need sewing machines”