Glaucoma won’t let my mother knit:
fine wool is a problem, her most intricate stitch
no longer viable. Unravelling doesn’t require sight.
Look into her eyeball and you’ll see light
receptors twinkling like stars. Ganglion cells die,
darken the supernovae,
lovely eclipses for others to see
in our intimate, sighted jelly.
On the coast, each village had a different style
of fisherman’s sweater, they say. The tide
reads blackberry stitch like Braille
with dexterous pressure, untangling the wool
of tendons. Tears are a retreating sea
full of dark fish swimming. Knit one, purl three.