Weaver

I Have No Memory Truckstop #1 A neon oasis Where Bedouins In Peterbilt caps Can with their eyes Follow hips, not highways. -Casey Jacobs Finding my birthright as one finds a perfect shell on stormy sand, the old Indian woman, Red Feather, gathers me to herleather -cheeked, gentle of eye and hand. Her voice soft as a moccasin and she tells me I am her dead son reborn, shows me baby pictures from a former life, reads me bedtime storiesher own-of growing up female and Indian. Smells of smoked fish settle in the still room. I dip and rise like a rider speeding through foothills of possibilités. I think of my home with its windows to the east, rooms with rows of books posing questions and answers. -Phyllis Price Weaver Catherine weft goldenrod and ironweed onto her loom, October chroma of lonesome Kentucky pastures gone to seed; blood hues of sourwood and sumac her woof. She is married to the warp of this field, intertwining herself with its landscape. Shuttling back and forth on fertile mold her plow, a wooden boat, sails from her hand, arriving, a spider trailing silk. She turns with deft fingers to the next furrow. Yellow fruit ripens in the row. We see an amber leaf-fall edging the meadow. The season is mapped within her fabric, woven too tight for winter's chill rubric. -Gary Cummisk 38 ...