Stitch, a horror poem

How I would prefer a sewing table to this rickety metal gurney.
Mouth dangling thread tails are catching sweat beads on their journey
from my forehead like an amateur I hurry.
Hemming another running line in furry.
One more seam, and then a taper.
Bastings, patches, all needled proper.

And the banging on the door will not cease.
And the banging on the door disturbs the piece.

Insolent banging, arresting banging, unholy banging.
Could a pious silence not be reached?
Where is the reverence for this craft?
Grant asylum for this couture graft,
the Parisian tailor I had been.
No prenticing seamster works within.

No time to idle, no time to fuss,
back to busy hands, I must.
Hems and pleats. Tapers, cuffs.

But for that steel door banging,
tolling like a lumbering church bell clanging.
“Time’s up Simon, time for mass,
put your toys away real fast.
Hustle up, father’s belt is off, ”
My mother’s voice, sewing ideas aloft.

Bleating memories, pleads before,
my childhood bedroom’s keyhole door.
Reminding me to ask how tightly had I locked this cellar door?
Perhaps a few tied slip knots more.
Clove hitch. Cleat hitch. Stop hitch. Four.

Couldn’t hurt, my mother swore.
She wanted me to be a doctor.
May have. Could have, been a sailor?
Here I am, a cleaving tailor.

Would’ves could’ves. Hems and inseams,
twas my living. Bindings and casings.
Seams and hems, and clasps and vents.
Pinbacks, pleats, trousers, pants.

Vents, ah yes, and what of pockets?
Dare I craft some secret lockets?
Compartments seamless, something hiding.
Every master maker biding,
cryptic signatures for finding.
Underneath like glass shards binding,
calloused bumpy skin all rinding.

I step back on inspection, frantically I’m scanning.
While I’m itching stitchings, my own tattoos who’s scabbing.
Needles plunging, sewing stabbing.
Fussing, tugging at some patchwork jib,
dangling, flapping at my rib.
Recall the tale of the shoemaker’s kid,
They had no shoes!
I pinback my skin flap to leave no clues,
That would give up my childplay’s clever ruse.

Sutures and staples, cushings and purse strings.
Banging, banging, banging, the guards are stirring.

And instead I imagine a crowd applauding.
Wake up, you ungrateful guard, appalling.
My fashion muse, my unstirred model.
You’re missing the best bits, we must not dawdle.
You were next in line, you’re number nine.
I can’t save the other guards, there is no time.

If only this man could stand platformed before me.
A clay slab molded into a golem to adore me.
Not so maddeningly, forensically below me,
as I toil hunched and hovered, and cut from above he.

With wedding dresses, bride’s had shrieked, each arm sleeve laced.
With men’s suits, you’d get some nods, sometimes be graced
with a few muffled ‘mm-hmms.’ Gratefully placed.
Unlike this unbearable customer’s silent indifferent unpliable face!

Swift loops, a finishing knot, up the thighs with running hems.
Bang, bang, bangings! Yes I know, shouting again.
I’m nearly finished. Their knuckles began –
sounding like a two-hand battering ram.

I am rethreading for tiny touches.
Feathering, chevrons, tiny buttons.
Palettes, swatches, patterns paisley.
Did I have time for a lazy daisy?

Then more bangings, like before.
Can’t remember, had I locked that door?

Lockstitch, keystitch, keyhole. Buttonholes!

Silly me, I forgot the buttons!
Some clasps to close this blood bag of mutton.
The last seams hemmed, pockets open and zippers closed.
Eye holes, mouth holes, ear holes, nose.

Bing bang banging! Ring rung, ringer!
Startled now I prick my finger.
Droplets splattered, smearing blood so stark
Delighted in this unintended maker’s mark.

But the metal clanging turns bursts and clatters.
Then the asylum door is breached and shatters
dangling weightily by plaster and knots.
All being cut down. Here comes the lot.

Boom hitch. Pile hitch. Tumble hitch. Not.

Boring and predictable, eight armed guards storm in,
scramble into the room hostile and shoutin,
Down on my knees. Hands behind my head.
Let’s keep playing this please, I break for it instead.

Running stitch! Ladderstitch! Zig zags!

Alas I’m caught, chokehold and tackled
on the morgue cellar floor, patiently shackled.
Clench in anticipation, awaiting them to notice.
My work, from toes, to guts to throat is.
So neatly hemmed and intricately grafted
This unnamed, plain faced guard, a masterpiece crafted.

Mother wanted me to be a doctor.
Swaged steel needles, staples and suture.
One guard runs to the corner mop bucket, vomit relentless.
The rest, patting my back so hard, it beat me senseless.

Catch-stitch, backstitch, lockstitch.

I am back in my high ceiling closet, bear hugs, padded floor.
They’re talking about changing the locks once more.
Locks for cells, cellars, guard rooms, air shafts.
Padlocks, lockers, gunlocks, handcuffs.
Keys for all, keys for all. Things I hide, keys I took.
Skeleton keys, paperclips, and fishing hooks.

They will never keep up. Uniformed men do another body search for clues.
They find nothing on my person except my tattoos.
Intricate maze lines stenciled and measured.
Forearm puzzles, clavicle scars, sown in treasures.

Braided sutures, cushing sutures, sutures unshowing.
Lockstitch, keystitch, hidden stitch, buried in sewing.