Tricia Knoll

 
 

TO THE WOOD CLOTHESPIN

I didn’t send him on a goose chase or a scavenger hunt. I love these mouthy alligators,
little goes into the maw of my electric dryer. That’s where I store my gym bag. I wanted
birch clothespins, no plastic. Pinching the jaw hinge that holds our clothes to rope feels
precise and determined. I am not smart enough to coil seven wire loops into a conflicting
tension that hold pins together, this push me / pull me engineering. Physics aside,
clothespins are tough enough to hang up a sodden dog bed and resist a stiff breeze that
threatens to sail off a bra. When the spring is sprung or it inevitably falls apart, off to the
worm bin, rot into mulch. Like us.

You, the elegant holdfast. Pin my skins to rope. Let wind and sun have their way with my
trappings. Mirror the dragonfly. Model for the hummingbird one merit of stasis. Let me
adore your mellow weathering. Teach me how to grab on and never let go.