She was snagged at birth.
A gossamer thread,
Spun it was said from
The crosshatch quilt of
A lineage worn thin
By the rupture of ages.
Restive, she unpicks the tangled map
That keeps her in bonds and furnishes warmth:
A pupa wrapped in the swaddling arms
Of the unaccountable dead. Secrets
Go west, beyond range and scale; the furies
Of unearthly recrimination howl
With the wind and hail. She is going back
To the beginning. The ground whence she came.
Unthreading herself, and with her the world.
© Les Roberts 2016. All Rights Reserved.