Wednesday, January 02, 2013

Penelope (the weaver)


Dawn after rosy dawn and my man swore he
would return but long before cave dwellers,
one-eyed sons of gods and svelte skin sellers
the faithful wife routine began to bore me.
I unravelled from this tortured story,
teasing apart the web. The tale tellers
whispered behind their hands. The fellers
murmured at my exit streaked with glory.

Pick. Pick. Pick. This habit’s hard to break,
everything unstitched, a world of thread
loose in my hands and still I pull apart
the warp from weft until my fingers ache:
Undone, unmade, unsnarled, unbirthed, unwed.
Tattered remnant, the crewelwork of the heart.

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