loom // poem

It is not me

who is weaving

rather it is 

I who is

being woven

old women

sit invisible behind

me. layers of their

dextrous wisdom

toss and leap

between us

I feel grandfathers

there too,

tailors in Szeged

mending and measuring

wrinkled hands smoothing

creased fabric

sometimes memories

of a place with more cobblestone

than steel step forward

out of their cellular rest

this is how the loom

is a two way pond between

memory and body

images of different lands,

migratory,

courtships across Hungary,

Romania and other Northern, Easterly

parts. serenades between tailors

and seamstresses and bishops and 

poets

the dead speak in curious

feelings, in the quite lurk

of attention,

they guide us to nooks

and crannies of talent

mapping constellations

with rigour,

making family

a body

of time

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