Published: February 25, 2007
Atropos, picking at her bandages:
I learned on a fifteen-year-old boy who
picked the wrong time to run across the street
to the grocery store. Then the tapestry
blurred; I couldn’t even bring the blades
near the loom until Lachesis started laughing.
Weep as long as you need to, little sister; he’s
the one left lying in the middle of the street, taking
all the time in the world to die. Clotho interwove
her mirth, and I stood mute, clenching metal
in my fists until blood dripped onto the skein.
In perfect unison they guided my stained
fingers, pressed cutting edges to the dangling
thread until the wool split, and his mother’s
scream echoed in my throat. I knew then
I could only cut the threads so many times before
those scissors would start to look like the best way out.