Selvage Prayer

[Verse 1]
The Brother machine whines under my thumb on the pedal
On this bolt of white linen I bought down on Fabric Row.
You said, "Just make something honest," so I'm fighting with the nettle
Of a pattern whose language I don't know.

[Chorus]
This ain't no symphony, Amelia, it's just a crooked seam.
My only hymn is the whir of the gearbox in this machine.
It's a clumsy devotion, a fumbling true belief.

[Spoken Word Interlude]
(A woman's voice, warm and slightly distorted, as if from a phone recording)
"Okay, now you're gonna fold it on the bias grain. Don't force it. Let the fabric tell you where it wants to go. See? Just like that."

[Verse 2]
I keep unpicking stitches from this Tuesday afternoon,
Each puncture in the fiber a testament to doubt.
They taught me counterpoint at Curtis, but that don't mean a thing soon
As I try to turn a flat, dead object inside out.

[Chorus]
This ain't no symphony, Amelia, it's just a crooked seam.
My only hymn is the whir of the gearbox in this machine.
It's a clumsy devotion, a fumbling true belief.

[Bridge]
All those years spent chasing perfect pitch and proper form
Left me with empty hands and a quiet, tidy rage.
But the heat from this motor is keeping my fingers warm.

[Outro]
Turning the page, Amelia.
This is me turning the page.