Spare

One button is missing
from her black blouse,
just below the hollow
at her throat.

~

She means to mend it.

~

The spare is in the sewing tin.
She snips it from the card
it came with.

~

She brings it to the bed,
threads the needle,
lays it across her knee.

~

The loose thread touches her
whenever she moves.
She moves again.

~

Then takes the edges
between finger and thumb
and holds them shut.

~

That stops it.

~

She loosens her fingers.

~

There.

~

The opening widens above her breast.
She follows the edge
with the back of a finger,
taking longer
than the damage needs.

~

The silk shifts as she breathes.
She waits for it
to touch her again.

~

Then smooths the frayed place.
A few black fibres
come away on her thumb.

~

She has been careful with this blouse.
Even now,
her hands are making less of it.

~

The old stitch-holes are still there.
New thread would have to trust
the thinning cloth between them.

~

She rubs the fibres from her fingers.
They are too fine
to pick up from the sheet.

~

The spare sits beside her.
She holds it where it belongs.

~

Five minutes.
She has five minutes.

~

For a while she sits
with the gap held closed,
her fingertip
taking the place of the button.

~

She presses harder.
Her breathing
keeps pulling at it.

~

Then she puts the needle away.

~

Unfastens
the next one.

.