Weave
I wove you in the womb--
Navaho eyes, pink fingers--
I took you out and spread your small
shape over the hillside.
Snow gave you your laugh,
summer your brown color,
the blueberries of July
the plush set of your mouth.
In the dark I covered up
your rips and tears
with red thread. School books
in the corner. Music
on the altar. Set you
in the brook to wash you clean.
In this howling
dream you run ahead, lead me
deep into the forest. You are
dressed in God's finery,
milkweed silk, your eyes
clear and unafraid. In
the streets the children are still
calling your name. I have
your shoes. Your first
tooth. Your shape among the trees.
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