BPR 53 | 2026
My hands, all day, work at linen cloth, stitch
the boulder shape of another’s hand
raised in prayer.
A spider above me knits a web
as loose as cotton, coiled like ropes that hold
a treasure chest
shut. Stretching my limbs out lengthwise,
I draw a circle around myself, my own web
of time and weak
muscle, snapped sinew. I’ve witnessed
the sky’s dark voids and tried to repair them.
The earth knits
a tapestry of blue abandon and I heave it
over my back, a sleek blanket. Of my
father, all I have
left are photos. He is only a face stitched
by memory; thread sews expression inside
his green eyes.
The threads are thin as gossamer, scented
as juniper. I am tied to him in memory
by a green cord.
Each day, time pulls the string between us taut
and each night, that inescapable string turns
loose in dreams.