The pullover your mother knitted
hangs from you like a newborn
at a breast.
She couldn’t manage the complex pattern;
guidebook charts of courses and wales
seemed over-technical and inappropriate;
she hadn’t enough yarn when casting on.
That hole, where the body was supposed
to meet the sleeve, is barely noticeable
to anyone but the two of you
and your string of girlfriends.
The shift of style to warp and weft
was unavoidable – a demonstration
of her developing skill. She carried
on two feet too far: it covered your groin
and reached down to your knees.
Your younger brother’s jumper
was the purest exhibition of her talent:
reverse stockinette, which fitted
him like a hauberk.
As you eat breakfast at your mother’s,
she repairs the holes and damaged seams.
Outside, your brother pulls up in a Lotus
and new Ferragamo suit.