there is no hum I don’t think of you.
your form bent over, your fingers
nimble and gnarled. I wear the
pride of you, the bolts and yards
of paisleys and purple dots,
the lengths of thread and days
and myths you spin as you sew.
an orphan who’s saved from his
jealous aunt by a neighbor who
knows his tea, a corpse that
woke to walk again by the crossing
of a cat, a curse for a pockmarked
husband in a bowl of uneaten rice.
as you whir and weave your tales
to me, I see how your calico dress,
crimson with spots, dances around
your gliding and unshod feet.


About ky

Poet. Photographer. Writer. Goddess. View all posts by ky

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