THIMBLE IN TIMES OF WAITING

You know, I say to my mother, 
an old mushroom the night before

my father’s funeral. When they begin
to prick you, trick, stick, and stab you

remember the thimble he gave you 
when you were pregnant

how even he believed he wanted
you to stitch and hem, the fool he was

even as he had loving words carved
around its edge, etched into silver.

Darkened now after 65 years, yet alive
spelling change and protest. No more

women hiding at home. Mothers hating
their fate. Yet, mom, do remember

the thimble’s still armor and amour.
At my father’s funeral tomorrow

when needed pull it over your head
and let it cover you from top to toe

so no needling edgy remark breaks
your surface. Your face cool

reflecting his scientific approach
to loving and fractal sorrow.

PUBLISHED IN GLINT LITERARY REVIEW, Fall 2024, Issue 15