DAUGHTERS OF THE SPINDLE by Mary Elzabeth Lee

 

Holda named my kin Kunkel:
versed their daughters how to value
poverty, bathe in soil and sweat,
swallow what would choke, love
always at arm’s length. My mother    broke
the rules: taught me how to cry, dream of ivory
towers, grasp
love and language
as spans of the same thread.    Even so,
                                 I feel fibers of my ancestors catch,
                              flax, lamb’s wool pull me
                       into cemetery records,
            my mother’s    tight    chest
where our family bibles    lie. The names of shadows
drafted
spun tight
wait
to be drawn by my shuttle-tongue
woven into my revised blood-line.

 

 






Mary Elzabeth Lee enjoys sharp cheeses, sharp tongues, and sharper wits. She lives in Red Lion, Pennsylvania and attends Penn State York where she is the student editor of Any Other Word.

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