unravel

Alex Makaela Rushmer

I’m good at untangling 
knots. I used to unravel
 yarn for kiddy crafts.
My fingers tortured 
knotted spools
 into fluffy lengths
 of yarn. I laid it out
 to be cut
 and cut
 and cut
 and tied 
together again.
Pulling and mending, 
I consider patchwork
 quilts and the blown-out
 knees of dirty jeans
 and rag-dolls smiling
 despite countless stitches
 and torn-out eyes.

I used to untangle toddlers’ hair,
 combing tangles and organizing
 shining strands while       she obliviously
 sucked her fingers.                 I think of roots struggling
 around one another for water                            or ivy on trees, blankets wrapped
 around the legs of lovers, too-few                               spaghetti noodles cuddling in a pot.

I saw an X-ray of my brain –                              a monochrome mess of knots huddled
 in the dark, wet chamber of the skull.                     The right and left hemisphere, two big tangles
 connected by a single red thread.                                          Are some brains more knotted 
than others?                                                                                                                              

  I once met a young man tangled                                                                 in voices and visions.
I plunged into his mind and unwound                               the strands of broken thoughts, bound
damaged synapses with my own                               red thread. Busy hands don’t tie nooses.
But I couldn’t untangle those knots                            in time. My restless hands itch
 – calloused – trained.                          Can’t relax. Can’t stop.
Knots and tangles the size of skyscrapers 
tower around me. Lead by pleading voices, 
I move to the next mess and begin to unravel.