Ten things made

  1. I make marks on cloth with needle and thread
    little trails, small tracks
    that lead to somewhere.
  2. We make our bed on a borrowed floor
    taped together vinyl mats and bamboo sheets
    blankets stolen from the skies between hemispheres.
  3. He makes music with builder’s hands on worn wood
    a body and neck as old as his father’s
    fingers picking strings like beauty fresh born.
  4. They make house from found things
    salvaged floors, windows, doors
    building walls of second-hand stories.
  5. She makes slow stabs at sentence forming
    stringing words through ideas
    hoping truth will bind.
  6. You make sounds that vibrate
    on skin, through bone, touching spines
    healing, resounding.
  7. We make lamplight from moonlight
    trace the constellations with our fingertips
    follow the path of the sun.
  8. He makes the world into metaphor
    drawing curtains over private spaces
    keeping some truths filtered, unseen.
  9. I make movements and motions
    pushing rhythms through hip bones
    teaching lead feet to take flight, soar.
  10. They make bounty from remnants
    living both fragmented and fully whole
    migratory contradictions, thriving.