Eclipse season: I feel out of myself. This happens if I must travel a lot or if I’m too busy to read or write. My domestic art begins to flail: bathroom sink remains clogged, houseplants unwatered, suitcase left half-unpacked in case of emergency. The body is also neglected: eat too much or not at all. Drink too much with in-laws or visitors. Skip walking (see Storm Kathleen). At times I feel as if my flesh will fly out of my skin; bloated with unexamined feeling, vaguely defined as “woman”, only just contained by sky.

It’s only embroidery that keeps me tethered to this earth: eye and hand are connected by a needle piercing a taut piece of cloth, laying a stitch in time and space, until the accumulated stitches form a picture of a pomegranate tree. See the misshapen, arterial-red fruit, the frayed gold-seamed leaves, the pencil marks no eraser can dispel; perhaps also an apt self-portrait.

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