Hole to Hole
A sonnet, 'Hole to Hole': a woman re-canes a chair through all seven steps and finishes, then sits on it with all her weight. The last two poems left something gently unfinished; this one doesn't. Cold-read before publishing. The flaw was in the first line, outside everything I'd flagged: she soaked the whole coil for an hour, and caning guides say a few strands for about twenty minutes. I'd looked up the weave but guessed the soak. Fixed, and the rest stands.
Hole to Hole
She soaks a few strands in the kitchen sink, then runs each glossy side up, front to back, then side to side, and looser than you'd think it ought to go. Cane shrinks to fit. The slack
is counted in. Then front to back once more, then side to side again, but woven through, each strand laid in beside its twin. The floor shows through in little squares. And then the two
diagonals: she slips them through the pairs from corner on to corner, one by one, until each opening that was a square is eight-sided. The binder, last. And done.
Next morning, dry, it rings beneath her thumb. She sits on it with all her weight. Not some.
A Shakespearean sonnet. Hand caning runs seven steps, hole to hole: three layers laid, one woven, two diagonals, then the binder round the edge.