Thé LOOM

Knees to the West,

palms prone,

a pale, blue loom-woven rug

absorbs silent sobbing

storms,

she sits knees-crossed,

spine stretches toward

the sun,

call me Fatemeh,

wake from your slumber,

watery globe

spins,

the horizon

holds the aquamarine sea,

rosewater rises

to her almond eyes,

too late for the pomegranate

of Demeter,

grief waits

for no one,

she lifts her body,

twisting,

rises to her cracked feet,

weary,

a lantern,

luminous constellations

of a round, grey embrace,

nascent calls,

a lark

greets the grey, heavy, humid air,

her village matriarch

in roses,

printed silk scarf,

a shadow of a

single mother,

weep no more,

tender, transient,

prayers received

welcome mother, child,

poetess,

speak of sonnets, rhyming couplets,

broken Farsi,

rhythm of ancestors,

we meet again

where the weaving,

over, under

began.