‘Basket Weaving’ by Elizabeth Murtough

I am told I look like someone
who knows how to use a needle.
Each pull ends in a poke.

Brown blood stains dried palm.
I tuck, pull, push: the basket grows
uneven as tree rings before/after drought.

I weave red-handed into asymmetry
until my mess is taken from me; corrected;
returned. Again and again, I push and bleed.

*

Returned: again and again, I push and bleed
until my mess is taken from me; corrected.
I weave heavy-handed into asymmetry

uneven as tree rings before/after drought.
I tuck, pull, push: the basket grows round,
blood stained in dry palms.

Each pull ends in a poke.
Who knows how to use a needle?
I am told I look like someone.

From issue #2: spring/summer 2016

About the Author
Originally from the coast of Southern California, Elizabeth moved to Ireland in 2017 to pursue a M Phil in Creative Writing from Trinity College Dublin, where she is currently enrolled. Her poems attempt to explore the liminal territories of land, body, and self in the tradition of poets like Mary Oliver and John Montague. She recently participated in the 2018 Poetry Ireland Introductions series. Having resided in Dublin and North Kerry, she now lives and writes in Cork. Follow her on Twitter @eamurtough.