Seamstress in War

She moved the needle
through the fabric.
The sewing machine
was sometimes the only sound
coming from
within the house more
staccato than the intermittent
shots outside. The sound
of her own textile was her
imagination in thread.

She remembered
when she had started to make
her own clothes. She made
a dress for a date. It was
the red her grandmother hated
because it stood out
in the desolate streets, where the
buildings cried, drops
of water falling down windows,
dew on the shingles.

They went to
a café and someone
opened her purse and stole
the last of her coins,
still warm with her hands.
It was more than a purse.
It was her body
opened up and taken, thin
thievery. It was then she started
to take, to make collections.

She collected buttons.
She collected pill cases.
She collected foreign coins.
She collected red lipsticks.
She collected vials of perfume.
She collected gum in silver wrappers.
She collected spare keys.
She collected safety pins.
She collected passports.