Silk Map Perhaps your grief is a silk map that you carry in your pocket or wear inside your sleeve. It may be folded, crumpled, sewn into the hem of your skirt, stashed in the hollowed-out heel of your shoe. If you crash, if you lose your way, your silent map will show you star charts, ocean currents, the seasonal limitations of ice. On your way down, on your way over, on your way through, the ravine, the river, the mountain pass, your grief will be with you, at times as scarf, as tourniquet, as sling. And you may traverse a continent before you know-- You cannot arrive; you cannot return, though you are on your way, always, you with your silk map that feels like skin. At Each Moment, Air We’ll loosen, then, the ribbons of our grief And turn our talk toward the blood of years. Our mothers sift to air, become belief. A remnant slips at first then burns, a sleeve, a flush of hours, those days of waiting, fears. We’ll loosen, then, the ribbons of our grief. Embroidered horrors, each a ravaged leaf so fierce with green, no blossom reappears. Our mothers sift to air, become belief. Unstitching every hour, we find relief. We talk to threads in case there’s one that hears. We’ll loosen, then, the ribbons of our grief. Let fly these flags; the wind is likely brief. We’ve made a sail; still, nothing interferes! Our mothers sift to air, become belief. No resting place but wind, that magic thief. And if the ashes blow right back, we’ll laugh, so loosened, then, the ribbons of our grief. Our mothers sift to air, become belief.
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AuthorAliesa Zoecklein reads and writes poetry in Gainesville, Florida. Archives
January 2021
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