I.

Ten years of weaving
and unweaving
have left me with
nothing but knarled hands and
a heap of scraps to keep
hidden from the knot
of suitors stewing below.
I stem the tide of
their advances by
burying a cancerous mound
of cloth each night,
turning the silken shards
into a shroud,
bartering for another day
to find the right weft to
warp myself,
to pluck at my frayed
edges and find a thread
strong enough to stop
my unraveling.

II.

He’s sleeping now.
Snoring, smelling
of that witch woman,
covered in sweat
and the blood of
a hundred men,
bloated by beer and
the twenty years of
tales he’ll tell
for the next fifty.
His limbs twitch
his mouth curls
as he mimes his
dreams for me to see,
clever head back
with veins fluttering
like blue ribbons
in a breeze.
I’ll leave
as I came,
naked and unbound:
a failed seamstress
with one more
thread to cut.