My hands are white, I do not
plough
My lace is even and skilled
Absorbing my dreams as I
loop and knot
My head is bowed, docile and
focused
Pretty nape,
I am patient and wealthy and
fed
I do not want; my cup is
full
No need to think or worry
My waist is small,
whalebones tight
If I faint, it’s the
expected constitution
For my sex. Take small
bird-breaths
And do not hurry.
We have the means; I can
stay here
All day like a cat by the
hearth
With my women friends
Pulling and weaving and
threading
Sharing stories familiar and
edifying
I cannot see manacles.
Sometimes I dream
Of the sun on my body
Just dreams as I click and
thread and pull
Swapping anecdotes and
recipes
I look at my progress; an
heirloom
A future treasure from
nimble fingers.
Sometimes I dream of using
my arms
Straining like I do when I
lift my son high
Above my head.
Use my arms to dig and plant
Use my lungs to suck in
sweet earthen air
My deep psoas to stabilise
my hips.
Sometimes my hand shakes
My fancy-work is ruined
And I have to pull it all out, alas, all of
it…again
Because I remembered a dream
In which I was a brumby
And it seemed so real that I cried
uncontrollably.
But I am status, I am kept
I am bound and trussed
I am your symbol; I’ll not wander
A compliant king tide, a genie in a bottle
A godless, bleeding, stinking gash
And I, smilingly, hand the reigns to you.
