Lingchi

Jon Culp

i Inherited a pair of right-handed scissors-

from depths of the basket of twist-thread 

and patterns beside nana’s rocker. folds of 

white cloth waiting a turn in the hoop learning 

embroidered wisdom or a stich-leafed sunshine 

scene. stretch, Snip. each letter, Snip. each 

word spelled out, left to right, Snip. bone-white 

handles snap closed like a guillotine blade 

in a supremic-reshaping of its world, one stitch-

letter, one word, one wall hanging, one pillow,

at a time. Snipping folded accordion-chains

of little white men until the butcher paper runs out.