IN THE MIDST OF DEPRESSION
by Cheryl Kutcher
I’ve tried to think about a button, how it
fits into fabric, into the buttonhole, sliding
between stitches like a knife through skin.
But if I think about a button, I think
about undoing, how the binding thread
snaps when pulled too hard, too often,
how an item meant to clasp is no match
for the fingertips that seek separation.
When these thoughts overwhelm the mind,
it is easy to forget the cloth surrounding
the button, how none of its stitches intentionally
unseam. All of the dresses I own are missing
buttons. But I’ve saved them all in this pile,
you see, though by now I’ve forgotten
which buttons are supposed to fit where.
Gyroscope Review - !39