It took you a minute, or maybe a year

To find my conscience tucked away—

Embroidered to the spare bedsheets near

The hollowed insides of our couch.

Red and blue and black and green

Colors so vibrant, threads so pristine

Singed not by sun since the early Teens

Scented faintly of naphthalene.

For although wrinkled was the relic

It seemed so still and soft

Ironing, you thought, would do the trick

But how unruly canvas becomes!

Burnt with freshly tinged brown rims

You struggled to stop the flames

When they stretched tremendous tendril limbs

And reached longingly toward the sky.

For as much as I shroud the tapestry

In resentful regret or passionate pride

Or wonder or worry or fear and fury

Who am I to blame its thirst for air?