Weaving

Night, dense indigo   
in the shape of whirlpools— kusikos— 
or a kaleidoscope of flowers— sinan-sabong—

Dream blanket to confuse and distract 
malevolent spirits hovering 
overhead—

We all want to walk in protection:
harbor and hill, fields 
tasseled with grain—

How do you single out the tune
meant for your ears only, filament
spooled in a heaven of foremothers?

For years, you squinted at the light
that came through a faraway window,
pretending to catch its milky drops in your palm—

There you are in the garden, amazed
at how the time moved so quickly, a stone
that finally learned to lightly graze

each watery crest 
instead of sinking with the weight 
of its own resistance—

The crepe myrtle trees shed
their tattered tissue but you don't know
if they're entering or leaving their grief.

You yourself pull at threads: weft
and weave, your soul still anxious
about stitches and holes—

A thimbleful of seed, 
a mouthful of feathers, a box
filled with all the words you remember—






 



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