There’s a pin in my pincushion.
It’s lost in the tomatoey flesh up to the small, silver hilt.
You might miss it if you weren’t careful, but
It’s safe inside the cushion, so you’ve no reason to fear.
Yet it does rather ruin the ruby red fabric;
Some aesthetic value is lost, I suppose …
From the pin in my pincushion.
I worried, at first, that stuffing might spill from the wound,
But the skin around the pin has toughened – a great relief.
There would be no greater embarrassment than to have
My stuffing on your fingers as you go about the world …
What would people think?
Of the pin in my pincushion.
It wasn’t your pin; you didn’t put it there,
You would take it out if you could, but the scar tissue …
I was ashamed at first. The flesh was so imperfect. The pin became
My pin: the silver dot so small, yet so glaring, and I’d been told
Damaged goods were no good.
But the pin in my pincushion …
You’ve shown me now that where I’ve been,
Or how I got that nasty pin,
Or who has cut me now and then,
Or what I think of other men
Are not what cushions hold within:
They are the pin in my pincushion.