He rolls me, extols me, takes the words in his hands.
I caress my health back into my body. I weave a slanted line
and then another. The pastry cutter’s stuck with butter.
Autumn’s quick here, painful, bright. The loom in the garage
pieces itself back together. The loom in the garage was broken
long before we were here to see it.
The women’s circles are chatty and warm, children lay between them, covered
in thread, the women circle each other, help until
cement is put up between their mouths.
They try talking through stone, try talking
in stone. Pottery in the kiln shatters from heat and light.
Women circle their children and cry, women moan and carry
the past until it bends.
Poet turned testimony, we bite our words
into ink. They leave and I press
the ink under heavy books as if flowers. I teach
the ink by pressing it into skin. His tattoos
break circles on the floor, concentric
circles leave his arms and
sit on my floor. I roll them back and forth
on my belly, on my lips, I press
the floor into my mouth as I miss his mouth. History is told
in moans, in objects cherished,
women circles celebrated
in half-moon light, then cemented
to dull plaques. History is untold
in moans, women circles to undo
our painstaking lines, to unveil
mazes for our steps to follow,
to brandish, to trample. We are
in charge of our steps. We are too
in charge of our steps.
