Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Acorn Boats

I think I would like to live by the water,
hear small waves lapping on shorelines when I wake.
I think I would walk a rocky beach
and dream of the children I will never have.
I think the water would soothe me
and point out that I did not want to bring little beings
into the world this time around.
I think I would nod sagely
and let the water remind me
of all the contracts I made before growing bone
and skin
in the belly of another strong woman
so that I could smell dampening air and rushing currents.
I think the stone grey tides
would wash the wishes of distant lives onto my doorstep.
I think I would brush off the sand
and display them in my kitchen window
and send out my own
in acorn boats
to find new lands.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Love's Last Tapestry

I hold that piece of cloth
pressed against my nose,
eyes closed,
waiting to hear your voice again
and think that somehow
I should still smell you on it.

Every turn and weave of thread
holds your name to mine.
Through our blood
a secret story in the pattern.

Treadles push at the corners of me,
forcing the warp to bend.
Prismatic canyons and quiet roads
appear from your brittle hands
to navigate the roads of us.

I won’t let go of you, though.
They can’t make me.
Even though I only knew your frayed edges,
the silent turn of the wheel’s last length,
you are young again
and new
and held softly in love’s arms.
And it is all I dream for you.