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Artist
Thread of Our Days
She stitched our dresses
from bright weaves,
love tucked in the seams.
She taught far from home,
her Mandarin touched by Chicago winds,
her wages given back in service.
Not a teller of tales—
but present, so present,
with cotton swabs
on our skinned knees.
Always she carried our names like lanterns.
Now she whispers
she is ready
to go home.
