Unstitch Me

by Amy Ballard Rich

No matter

the knitted brows

cross-stitched my way

under molded ceilings

I refused to genuflect

before the Queen Bee;

luckily I have become immune

to repeated stings

Regulation decorations sparkle,

pulsing under thumping big books;

clichés begging for repetition,

hoping they will be obeyed

The basket-case was passed,

passers-by cased the joint,

don’t say the wrong thing;

they might drop a stitch

The room was full

of proud carrots

who vehemently insisted

they were not vegetables

I walked away,

cleansed myself in ocean waves,

breathing fresh gusts of wind

That carried me home