MomsBook_asof9.18.17
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Joy<br />
I wasn’t taken unaware<br />
at loom or prayer,<br />
despite the way<br />
you see me posed.<br />
The days of blood, my first,<br />
had passed although<br />
some traces of confusion<br />
from the women’s explanation<br />
still remained,<br />
like stains from roses<br />
dried between the sheets.<br />
O the freedom from the bindings,<br />
from the need to walk<br />
so slowly<br />
meant my body was my own again<br />
though not the same.<br />
A single strip of linen<br />
from the bolt that I’d been given<br />
swayed within a rhythm<br />
as I moved around the room:<br />
It was my turn to dust.
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