STITCH, BACKSTITCH, STITCH / Becca Yenser
I sew masks to cover the faces of people I don’t know. I sew masks using the CDC recommended pattern. I sew masks but I only have two prints I bought from JoAnn’s last year. I sew masks but my needle bends, so I replace it. I sew masks for nurses. For senior aide staff. For New Yorkers. For the Navajo Nation. I sew masks to the music of Wilco. Neko Case. King Princess. I sew masks as we break up. I sew masks when I hear my dad has cancer. I sew masks as our family dog dies. I sew masks through the downpour. Through the sunstroke weather. Through the haze of pollen. My dead dog visits me. I try to find the heartbeat stitch but this model is too cheap to have it. I sew masks for my immuno-compromised neighbors. For my aunts. My parents. My ex-boyfriend. Andrew Cuomo holds up a mask mailed to him by a farmer in Kansas. My hands sew the mask without me. Like running in a dream when you can’t feel your legs. The rhythm of the stitches are like drums in a Sting song. Upon the fields of barley. I sew masks then watch videos of people dying on ventilators. I don’t always sew masks. Sometimes I sit outside and watch the robins fight mid-air, my cat running hip-deep through the tall grass to reach them. Sometimes she brings me dead birds, but sometimes they fly away. ⁂ Becca Yenser was born in Iowa and raised in Oregon. They earned an MFA in creative writing from Wichita State University, where they were a Fellow in Fiction. They are the author of the poetry chapbook, “Too High and Too Blue In New Mexico” (Dancing Girl Press, 2018). Their fiction, non-fiction, and poetry have appeared in Madcap Review, Toasted Cheese Literary Journal, The Nervous Breakdown, Dostoyevsky Wannabe, Fanzine, and many others. They live in Wichita, Kansas with their cat, N.J.
