A Loom

with Reka Jellema

Her lap is a loom
Her hands a steady weft
And from the weave a murmuring
Of moths on threads unseen,

Unheard, she listens for the man
Who comes to call, to sit upon the stool
Pulling at the cotton til
Her fingers find his wrist

Cuffed and white and crisp
The buttons tightly imitating eyes
Tucked away in creases and lies
About the place, about the time

As though by stitch and by
Stitch she could hide him
Crouched and hushed and hazardous
As a fine shirt pin

Written with Reka Jellema