I’m stitching them together now,
small triangles of hand-weaving
heather purple for ancient days,
tan for the sand that holds and molds stone,
blue for the water that bends perception
green shot through with burgundy
to remind me of how time passes,
silk to kiss and wool to scratch
because the Beloved is like that.
I hope you’ll lay it over your shoulders
take your seat, unbent and knowing
each line of fiber has been laid in with a prayer,
ina ina urha shrara wa hayye—
When the small i is embraced by the Larger I,
you will walk a path filled with life.
It’s what I wish for you,
even though this is the part of the poem I cannot send—
even as my hands and my prayers
rest on your shoulder like a benediction.
I wove my baby into reality, effortlessly—
he’s 15 now, lanky as milkweed,
his cheeks soft as those fuzzy petals,
and I wonder
what caterpillars are being nurtured beneath his surface.
I can weave for you but I cannot weave you into me.
I am holding threads of you,
each tied to an illusion or a half-dream
that my force of will cannot make real.
Is weaving like netting you, bits of you anyway
to salvage and untangle later,
when I stare out the window,
long white hair,
the sun on a braided rug in the entryway?
I know my end. I’ve seen that tapestry.
I despise the distance that you keep between us.
I despise this heart that is pouring out beauty for you
as if its rhythm were something separate from me.
Intellectual games, i and I,
and all i want is for you to reach out your hand,
fingers running over silk and wool
and ache to know how my breath feels on your skin.
So I package it all up,
cry to the post office and mail it out,
like a handful of dirt on an open grave,
a funeral wrap on one part of my life,
but also Al Mumit, a tranformation of death,
woven and released
into a resurrection
beyond my empty hands.