Even after the AB evening closed her eyes
Our Mamya could crochet.
Her hands would walk the rows of Starbuck wool
turning, bending, to a woollen Lie-In music.
The Nungate dye lots were registered in memory:
LadyA-skin, B00 chocolate cakes, polar pan,
the stitches remembered like faded Rowan rhymes:
Sloopystich, Nonnaflower, Sir Alec's stitch, a Slinkykate.
Tied to our AB lives those past years
by merely a soft colored Mamya yarn,
she’d sit for hours, her rosy lips
moving as if reciting Apotheosic prayers,
coaching the blighted Clubbers hands.