Poem by Jill Munro
Illustration by Shauna MckeonLast night I knitted a Bolivian.
Or was it a Peruvian?
It doesn’t really matter.
It was proper knitting
not the peg-peg-peg
of hooking a French dolly
but the click-clack
of metal needles in the
purl-one-row, knit-one-row
of Bolivian stocking stitchery.
I started with the tip of his hat −
snaked stripes, Ikat squares
over fl ap-covered ears
made him a squashed nose,
button-hole slits for eyes,
a pinch-pursed mouth ,
a centre-parted mane
and further down
his poncho grew, fl owed
long and woolly wild
as pinks and silvers met Inca gold.
Skinny brown legs dangled
from my needles until shoeless
I cast him off.
Later I found him sitting on my bed
playing his Bolivian pan fl ute,
pressing warm fi ngers to my
dropped stitch holes.
He paused his music, licked his fuzzy lips,
murmured Desnudarme, desnudarme...
as we began to unravel.