weaver’s hands
in the town of twelve altars, tia nalda offers her hands:
how beautiful are her palms, cupped cactus,
adobe fingers quick as the whip of lizard’s tail
dusk threads her four-harness loom, and rainbow lady
fashions indigo into vault of heaven, intertwines bosque
del mirlo with abras of alabaster, birthing land, sky,
farm within her tightly wefted tapestry of twilight;
beneath the merciful stars, tia nalda dreams the sky-
weave mysteries: cloud cloth and constellations: seams
edge of bright-willow dawn into luminous benediction,
then awakens to begin again, she who bears the proud
weaver’s life, ella que teje such terrible sweetness.
*Spanish words translated:
bosque del mirlo=forest of the blackbird
abras=valleys
ella que teje=she who weaves
(Appeared in Conclave Issue 1: 2008)