I remember the sting of it, a pulling sweetness as it moved through. In and out. Over and under. White on silver to red and red and tiny little marks like an x across the lines of him. Together and together and together.
A prick of shining, brilliant and sharp and cold, getting hot, the way metal picks up the spark of touch from skin.
Sewn-up edges. Together.
Whose hand holds the needle and thread?
Mine.
Rip, tear, rip, tear, and then cut cut cut. Measur and mark. Here the dart, there the seam.
I knot the thread and bite it with my teeth.
Button eyes and French-knot mouth.
Ragdoll me.
Don’t you want to play?
Are these flashes of something bigger? Are we as Mr. Malick said, a multiple selfless sameness that gives out pieces of a bigger picture a mote at a time, as though anyone is listening? Does it matter if anyone is listening? Here the dart, there the seam. That is what it’s about.