From my father

I have

the large German shears

still sharp after ten years.

He cut the lining straight,

an intellectual exercise

organizing space and making

shapes precise,

no matter how much time

or money

or love

it might cost.

The edging scissors

with jagged blades

left little triangles like teeth

on the borders of the cloth.

Like the marks on his skin

where he bit his hand

to prevent himself

from hitting

me.

The thimble and thread and needle

he used to jab the cloth

like skin,

a necessary pain for living

and guided by

the fingers he cut off at the knuckles

as a boy.

The large wooden block for stuffing shoulders

making them easier to press

at the surface

but thick, solid and heavy

underneath,

the blankness of his face

as we sat together

a month before his death.

I was his favourite,

the child he saw born and

nursed and growing

from a baby.

He hugged and kissed me and asked,

do you love me?

And would not believe

when I said yes.

He did the same with suits

and caressed their contours

and kept them

long after they were finished

looking for some response

from the well worked material

before he called the customers

to get them.

His expression and his face

now sitting on my neck

as I get older

still driven and held back

longing to eat up life

looking for an answer.

But I swear

(oh god, I need strength) 

I will not bite

my own fingers.