How I Learned to Weave by Siobhan Hodge
How I Learned to Weave
To make string, take Red origin, black cloth.
torn cloth I sit on sand beneath frayed organza.
of any length Printing into earth. I fumble.
colour, pattern, origin Whip-stitched warnings.
no matter if threads Smoke looms overhead.
are spooling and unravelling This is coverture in cosmic dust.
between your thumbs, ignore Iron blood.
their dance and twist Simulations of bone close in.
each end I draw up, tug banner.
between your fingers It becomes scarf with no hem.
in opposition – one away All seams torn.
and one towards The embroidered patch is laborious.
your body – until you find Line upon line grinding in and in and in.
it too hard to continue Overrun, overrode.
until your knuckles pinch Imagine the master’s foot on the pedal.
and the scar on the back of your hand A child’s desperate, determined tug.
tingles, then you may stop Rip the fabric away.
and scoop the weft together, raise We must write we must write.
both ends to touch The new steps intersect.
tender-tight I feel silk wrap, papyrus veins creeping.
they will leap Underline all borders, remember them.
and spin anew, free from you Unburnt horizons, waiting for spark.
but pivot like a fish on a line Blanket as gentle as shroud.
into one chain - twirl that closed I am weaving my path through space.
circuit, knot into one end Spores in my wake.
and find its place in the pattern. We make ourselves with what we find.
