Awash
in lace, linen, silk, the well-stretched canvas
of her eighth-month pregnancy laid bare, the woman
says, I want to feel beautiful
when reporters wonder why she pays a kohl-eyed artist
in silver bangles, plum-dried sari to spin
from her navel's well a star mandela, its lotus-petal hands
in henna paste over her belly,
each hand
palms up, holding glyphs on skin's canvas,
the name her child will spin.
Because I am fire, the woman
says, lifting her breasts when art
creates an echo of the beautiful
between spirit and flesh,
dreams of beauty,
full-moon babies born in a rush of seawater. Hands
shape the world's curve, where Ganges art
sears magic to live canvas:
A photo from National Geographic. Ancient woman
reading to you by your bed, I spin
these stories to keep
us company, waitng as you spin
wheels beyond my reach, beautiful
mother, grandmother, friend, seed woman.
I count each pulled breath, cup your curled hands,my head on
your pillow. Your half-open eyes canvas
memories of milky alabaster, the art
of your bones rebirthing--yourself
as artist--
while cling to grief. In your plain gown, spin
me a blessing, sweet crone, your journey a canvas
of blue which bathes you in cold beauty,
you who have face, flesh, hands,
who leave no spell I chant to keep the woman
you will be present to
the woman
I am, learning no fear of death, the artist
who mixes tears and pigment. My hands
shelter yours as you spindle
old threads for new tapestry, new beauty--
Irish coils at Newgrange, rock canvas,
hands of a Celtic priestess
invoking art, life
after life, spinning a woman's sunrise
across the wild beauty of a celestial canvas.
Copyright
© Martha Modena Vertreace, 2000. All Rights Reserved.