Behind the Loom
There’s something in the attic only women can find, A rustle, a rattle, a gathering bind. You call it a fancy, and you pat my head. But rafters drip with the voices of the dead.
POETRY
Behind the Loom
By E.J. Moon
There’s something in the attic only women can find,
A rustle, a rattle, a gathering bind.
You call it a fancy, and you pat my head.
But rafters drip with the voices of the dead.
The hearth fire spits-hiss like a cornered cat,
your smile is warm, yet your shadow’s flat.
Nursery curtains twist in an unseen gale.
The cradle rocks though the babe has grown cold and pale.
Knitting the mourning shawl,
my needle moves with a will of its own.
The thread runs nun-black where it once was creamed bone.
You bring me roses with thorns uncut,
and their petals bleed where my fingers touch.
The looking-glass shows me twice my face,
One young and broken, one sharp with ancient grace.
Yet, you still speak of duty… oh, those ungentle chains,
brought by marriage and the birthing pains.
My body now ravaged by the fact and its stains.
But an hotter iron sings beyond my unhappily wedded veins.
The floorboards groan my ancient name,
A lineage carved in smoke and flame.
My thimble vanishes into the measuring cup,
my silver ring, removed, offered up.
You say I am just weary,
the story of women’s toil.
But there’s something in the attic only women can find,
Behind the spinning loom,
a prospective widow’s measured time.
Inheritance powder in the small jar beside the thyme.
I climb the stairs with candle bare,
Dust and fury in my hair.
Behind the trunk, a chest unclasped,
Letters yellowed, secrets grasped.
An ancestor’s words like fire, her rage like ragged vines.
Great-grandmother’s curse, well, it is now mine.
You follow, laughing, “Darling, please, this fantasy of yours must be ceased.”
Your hand upon my wrist like sticky grease.
I press your mistress’s locket to your chest,
And watch the knowing steal your breath.
Her body pulled from the Thames wearing my red dress.
The shadows lengthen, the candle dies,
Her voice within me against my sharper cries.
Sisters in death you have made us.
She haunts me day and night.
You sputter and stutter, eyes have gone wide.
The white hot revelation.
You are the murderer.
A walking crime.
You choke on your own words, knowing I have caught you.
You beg for water, hoping I will absolve you.
You reach for it, knowing that I have quenched you.
You drink.
Not knowing I have chosen you.
I leave you tangled in the mess,
Your hands clasped to your aching head.
The powder is fine as dust
and as clean as a fresh-rained dusk.
Bound by vows you never kept.
I tuck the confession into your vest.
Written by me, written for you.
Written for the pale son, now dead, that used to coo.
A black veil settles across my eyes.
Presently mourning,
I wear my armor, fierce and wise.
With my black shawl I walk the halls where silence once screamed.
The attic hums with the dead woman’s dreams.
There’s something in the attic only women can find,
tucked behind the spinning wheel and thyme.
A sisterhood stitched through the years.
In candle smoke and midnight’s tears.
I wonder now, if the girl-child in my womb
will one day find use,
for the inheritance powder
behind the loom.
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