Latch Hook

The only rug we had was on the wall—
linoleum was what my mother knew—
a woodsy scene, green trees, a waterfall,          
the wool a mane I ran my fingers through. 
In this worsted forest lit by lantern light,
I’d conjure a horse, a wicked witch, a gnome,
waiting for me, bespectacled Snow White
or lonely Gretel searching for a home.
But on the back, flat squares, the opposite 
of rug, more punch card code or scratchy map 
of where I was. I liked the front. I’d sit,
hand on the yarn, a stuffed bear in my lap,
sticking slightly to the Naugahyde couch,
when I needed something soft to touch.