Work of the Weavers

On threads spun, woven, and bleached, in this

land of lace and linen, now tumbled, she tosses

and turns, the slubs rough between

thumb and index finger, the branch tapping

a Morse code upon brittle panes, her sky

reliably an off-white grey, a blank

to embroider her intentions upon, unpicking the stitches

as the sun falls, to change the end of her story.

how her finger aches after spindle-pricking it and drawing

a bead of blood, cursed by those

malicious old Aunts jealous of her good

fortune, hovering in the anteroom, uninvited still,

snacking, languorously, on their bitter invective and

savoring the sour taste of it, relishing the aroma of

putrefaction rising all around them.

meanwhile, the threads, so many threads, mercerized for

strength, from fiber, from flax, spin themselves (spoke

stitch, hemstitched) into tablerunner, Christening gown, a

bridal veil trimmed with flouncings of lace, spider woven,

eyes of the needles winking open and closed (You’ll never

do better for quality and price!) Hers is a saucy

glance into the face of the future, and fate, and

fearlessness—the flag of her handkerchief unfurling

from the window of the train carriage. She

waves all away. She is on her way, finally.

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