How to sew

by E.W.I. Johnson

Crack open your chest,
rummage around for objects.
Take me, for example:
I peeled myself apart

and found a winter sun
a nuclear wound that clips
teeth at dusk so hard
stars erupt, a ball

of thread knotted over
and over, a tube of glue
a heart dripping with
something dark, sticky

sugar, probably, a handful
of bones that rattled
loose, a slick liver
with a nutty gleam.

Then take it all out,
pile it on the Persian carpet
and sift through
the stew of body grunge.

Look for your favorites
then grab the thread
where each knot
is a memory of pain

and begin to sew
your treasure
onto the one you love.
Take me: I held bones

onto his arm
sewed them tight,
placed my liver on his,
my heart over his.

I threaded and pulled,
told him to stay
close, any distance
is still too far.

E.W.I. Johnson (he/him) is a poet living and working in Chicago. He has poems appearing in publications such as Sonora Review, Jet Fuel Review, and the climate change anthology Dear Human at the Edge of Time (Paloma Press, 2023). Follow his writing, skateboarding, and unusual plants on Instagram at @ewijohnson_poet