Twirling in delight when uncoiled from
my spool,
by your gentle fingers,
I am a ribbon.
Your hands are doves.
And I come to adore them when
they shape me,
carefully, into a bow.
But when
the doves become hawks, and
the bow falls, lopsided,
I long not to cling so tightly to the spool
at your disposal.
my spool,
by your gentle fingers,
I am a ribbon.
Your hands are doves.
And I come to adore them when
they shape me,
carefully, into a bow.
But when
the doves become hawks, and
the bow falls, lopsided,
I long not to cling so tightly to the spool
at your disposal.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
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