Her combed skin creased and stretched over the topography of her face. Vacant and exposed I see her kneel, her rib cage sucked in deep with despair. She tried in vein to make the oxygen seep through the orifices, she couldn’t. I sat behind her and pulled until the limbs were rooted and spread, stop! Stop! She cried I can’t breathe. Don’t fight it you are here.

Easing her into the hall and laying her down in rigour mortis then pulling her jumper up I gently knead around her mother connection. Slow and deep.  This uncut cord is engulfing the life out of her. Everting to recreation.

Desperately trying to limn into a foetal position the body looks for succour.

Pulling up and away, shaking the tears come. Why! Why? Jesus help me! Letting her move to her own moribund desires she rolls into the anhedonic ball.

In this apostasy state I grab the wool from the shelf. Garbling gnostic utterances I bind her into a skein.

It is thick and soft, comforting, washed raw wool she smells the earth. Breathe in: deep… Imagine you are this yarn, each strand and fibre pulled and knitted. The dropped stitches, the twists and turns, the under and over’s no two yarns are the same. No two hand knitted garments are the same.

Massaging her head I reach for the atlas bone and pull up- a perdurable manoeuvre that never fails to quell the demiurge wrangling with the mind and body.

She closes her eyes and rests then sleeps.

I unwind the wool and stretch her autochthonous extremities fully. Fetching a cover. She is cocooned in a heated blanket only to wake later to another noumenon.