
They wield their pointed needles not as weapons of terror
flung at airline pilots or fellow passengers,
but as benevolent batons in the hands of a maestro,
to orchestrate the American right of dissent.
They unleash their finest tools — piercing intelligence, keen tongues —
for forays into enemy territory, waging verbal skirmishes
against the deluge of American policies run amok —
unfair immigration laws, defense of marriage acts, the bombing of innocents
to satisfy our country’s insatiable lust for SUV fuel,
no matter how high the cost in lives, civilians or soldiers—theirs or ours.
Not gray-haired biddies cackling on. They don’t rock away in rickety old chairs
spinning lovely scarves and lonely yarns about lost chances, spent youth.
These guerrillas rile the air at corner coffee shops
where they gather each week to knit and raise ruckus.
They sip hot coffee, tea with milk, munch on scones or home-made cake,
smuggled beneath skeins of yarn, extra needles, a sweater pattern or two;
They fill the spaces between knit and purl with pearls of fervent conviction
positing the off-center point-of-view, counter-point arguments the likes
of which are proffered on TV, in newspapers, at the grocery store,
on the bus, in the marbled halls of Congress.
They stray far from the middle, these middle-aged knitters
bold and with eloquent, they seek nothing less than an unraveling,
when their stitches fail to dismantling of failed stitches
for they’ve learned the hard way that some stitches fail to cohere into
a workable pattern, some projects best unraveled and cast anew with different yard.
They seek nothing more than to re-assemble
an America of texture and color as difficult, intricate and lovely
as the Fair Isle masterpieces that evolve, row by beautiful row,
from their astute guerrilla minds.
Author's Note: This poem was written for the women in the Denver knitting circle group I belonged to when I lived in that city.
This poem was published in Motherlines (Pearlsong Press, 2026)
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I love this – yes, let us UNRAVEL…