In my hand
a size 10 Tulip applique
—short and thin and sharp—
for English paper piecing
with each satisfying stab
I sew my hexies and triangles
into clever new designs
In my machine
a Microtex 80—that tiny sword—
gleaming pointy and pitiless
under the Bernina’s bulb
for puncturing waxed canvas, cork
or foam interfacing; materials
that might be trouble
In my vein
a butterfly—I think—with a clear
tube, one of the smallest
for gauging lymphocytes to
a tenth of a point; numbers matter
(they say) when I still can’t
believe how my blood betrayed me
Needles
Madeleine French lives in Florida and Virginia with her husband. A Best of the Net nominee, her work appears in Identity Theory, ONE ART, Dust Poetry Magazine, West Trade Review, Door Is A Jar, and elsewhere. She is working on a full-length poetry collection.