“Knitting’s like everything,” it’s tempting to say.
No. Knitting’s like knitting. Sure, there’s cosmology
in Norwegian sweaters with vertical stars,
but as science that doesn’t get us far.
If space is made of superstrings
then God’s a knitter and everything
is craft. Perhaps we can darn
tears in the space-time continuum
and travel down wormholes to begin
to purl in another dimension’s skein.
But no. There are things you can’t knit:
a spaceship. A husband, though the wish
might be strong and the softest thread
would be perfect for the hair on his head,
another, tougher, that washes well
for his pecs and abdominals. You can stitch a soul
daily and unpick mistakes,
perform some moral nip and tucks —
forgiveness. Look out. Your Frankenstein
might turn and start knitting you again.