Tether Hunger Sag

Some days the work is all spillover, like rain under the rack—thread swallowing water, rice sack bloated, not quite emptied. You take what’s at the bottom of the pile: last sack, stubborn rope, nails you hammer with a shoe. The urge to make soft things hold up what should be hard, and the hard things—ceramic, some dented tin—never sit quiet, always threaten to slip through, bruise the cloth. I’ve watched nets hang under ferry poles, slack and tangled, pulling more the heavier the tide—a kind of logic about dependence, or refusal to stand alone. I stitch and lash but every junction argues, sags, pulls loose. There’s no symmetry, just the memory of one. I won’t explain why these forms lean, why the shards never nest—if you know about holding hunger in a bowl too small, you understand: the holding is never clean, or final. Shelter’s a patch, never a promise. The banners hang not despite strain, but because of it.