Amah's sewing kit

She is a collector—of words, Memories, dreams, secrets and stories. She Dusts them off for that one day in the dark, Inspects from this angle and that. She collects them all like the random buttons In her Amah’s sewing kit. Never bought—They that once Were lost, now saved. Not unlike souls for Jesus Christ. Saved—For a day of reckoning. In its past life, it was a biscuit tin. Now, slightly Rusted, dented, it holds a world of colors and shapes— Redbluegreenyellowpinkblackwhitebrownfadedandbrightboth; Rounds, squares, triangles with rounded corners; Two, three, Four holes; What you need she has them all. She collects slights and insults, shares her bed With them, let them stab her again and again. She weeps. She curls up and waits. By morning, All will be bright, the light would have shifted. She has trained herself not to want Things. If she needs little, asks for nothing, Keeps still until she disappears; Maybe then— Instead she collects demons and ghosts. Locks them up, with the key she keeps warm By holding close to her chest. And she dares not Breathe a little too deep.