Two Poems by Esther Sadoff

by Esther Sadoff

Moving Past

I am moving past demarcation.

I am moving past dates. I keep trying

to close containers, to close each door,

the last page of a book, but the leaves

won’t stop curling, won’t stop blackening.

The bed of flowers collapses: bright bulbs,

bigger than my fists—soft implosions.

Sudden pillage I can’t ignore.

In School I Learned To Knit

I assigned it to muscle memory.

I could knit the air the same way.

I played piano on any silent surface,

moving my fingers up and down.

I still feel the loop of the knitting needles.

I still believe the heart is made

of two swoops and a needle point—

that anything can have a heart,

that music can be made from anything.