Betsy is sitting with a pile of fabrics in her lap
scattered on her table folded on her shelves
(there is trouble in the streets and shouting)
she picks up the long needle with its supple thread
lightly she raises it in the air mutters a prayer
pulls the needle through the fabric she has chosen
a torn black silk a strip of mourning cloth
dark as a night without stars beside it she sews
a strip of ragged white remnant of
a bridal gown or a winding sheet
now row by row stitch by stitch she sews
for hours into the night her face lit by the hearth’s glow
when she is done she goes out and taking
the black and white flag she has sewn she dips it
in the blood that is running in the streets now
tripping over the cobblestones she hurries back dries
the wet flag by the fire as the cock crows
the banging at her door says they have come
for the flag she adds a streak of blue satin because it is dawn
always dawn somewhere (how its blue shines!)
as the knocking grows louder more insistent she chooses
a piece of glinting gold lamé from an old ballgown
but no! she thinks the gold will ruin the design
as she rises to answer the door the edge of the flag
catches in the embers of the night’s hearth fire smolders
a moment till the cloth bursts into flames the wind
from the open door fans them and in a moment
it is ash a heap of glowing grey ash
the draft from the still open door where the men stare
lifts the ashes into the air a gray cloud like a breath
of a history expired and as the men curse she slams the door
like a hard sound at the end of a verse because
the milk is spilt the wind is cold she has promised repair
to her neighbor’s quilt and the day grows old
