First Wool

I was working in my aunt’s wool shop for a season
           when a woman came in wanting unusual
                        yarn for a wall hanging.

Nothing I could show her tickled her fancy.

Then I remembered my sister’s first wool.
           She had been learning to spin
                        and several hanks of her beginner efforts
                                     were kicking around—

crazy knots looping back onto themselves,
           then an airy wisp,
a snatch at the rhythm of the treadle,
           blackened tufts where
excess machine oil had sloughed,
           reeking of lanolin,
wrung into a clumsy figure-of-eight twist.

My customer clapped her hands together. Exactly it!

I asked my aunt how much I should charge.
           ‘Just the same as the good spinners’ work.
                        There is only so much first wool.
                                     No matter how hard you try
                                                  you can never spin as badly again.’

And she laughed.
           ‘There are people who lurk
                        outside of spinning classes
                                      trying to buy it all up.
                                                  It’s hen’s teeth.’

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Jennifer Compton was born in Wellington but now lives in Melbourne. She is a poet and playwright who also writes prose.