I am a weaver, a lacemaker,
an apprentice to spiders.
Thin cotton threads encircle
one hand, a walnut shuttle
in the other. I am bound
to my task, tatting delicate
picots like tiny, blinking stars
or snowy, dancing anemones.
The fresh smell of wild carrot
wafts around me like an aura.
Each fragile, flowery cluster
requires its own bloody drop
that dries as dark as a bird’s
eye or the mark on my inner
thigh. Even the smallest mark
can mar perfection. Purity
and fragility are brief companions.
Even a child grows from a speck
like a sunspot in an egg yolk.
My lacy flowers are upside-down
umbrellas, song sparrow nests
sanctuary from bad weather.
A womb to incubate a life.
A woman needs only one doily
to cast her fertility spell.
Queen Anne pricked her finger
while lacemaking, a knot
or a loop for each quickening,
seventeen, a prime number,
symbolic of grief and endurance.
From one small pinprick:
miscarriages, stillbirths,
and children that died young.
I manipulate the shuttle
like a choreographer of a dance,
each step a petal as patterns
emerge from the rounds.
Yet, depending on my mood
I may create another bloom,
hemlock, the carrot fern,
devil’s beard or devil’s food.
Hemlock mimics a spider’s finery.
It requires blood of a different sort,
its bitterness masked by wine.
Death is always the end result
as I conjure my miniature cosmos.
