September 18, 2011

My Last Willing Testament

Now I have begun unraveling
the yard I spun on moonish nights,
all woven through with threads of summer gold,
worn softly, and worn soft
with all the touching.

Now I have begun giving away,
piecemeal, my collections,
tokens, and bits, and sacred scraps of
value beyond rubies.

(Or, they were, before
I took them to the bank.)

Now I have knelt, thick of bone,
awkward of muscle, there
by the river where I gathered
lilies once, and later, watered
armored horses.

Now I wash
my banners and my ball gowns
in a machine, mixed
with socks and dish towels,
and occupy myself with
lining bins, and clearing space.

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