Rock on the orange meditation mat
by Melissa Buckheit
[ poetry - march 08 ]
Eight-year old who turns
the fly-wheel of the loom sleeps under
the heavy machine
her right arm too long, desire
pulled through the fluted limb, back
limp as the water flows the fifty spring-hooks
rinsing dye and dirt.
I fold my mat from the drawer
of pine wood, sit for hours, black stone
on her back, the dust of my body between her
beautiful arches.
