the poet, the painter, the weaver:
III. Now, an invitation to create your own interpretation...
Meditations on three
for S.B., A. D., A. F.
We all knew how, of course
memory lodged in girlhood fingers
locked in young muscle
like grain in wood, a secret
passed from mother, sister
just after the tying of shoes and
long before the clasp of bra behind the back.
The rhythm soothed, pulsed like tides
brush to smooth, divide to three
pull to the center, over, under
pull to the center, always, to the center
the outsider not left for long but
cradled between her twins
three limbs softly locked, entwined,
entangled in false knots, easily loosed with a tug but
wanting to join, wanting
the embrace of the familiar
of the neighbor of the other
two parts of the whole.
now, the threshold
I
remember their names, remember
the intimate smooth of hair between
my small fingers, remember
what
we wove with brown, with blonde,
a single buttercup, a young pain, a half story
the occasional clover tucked with care
into descending arrows, each node, a V:
joined hands of friends walking; hawk wings, still,
meeting of thighs.
Our
hands ached for it. We braided grass, braided licorice
if we hadn't enough hair, we borrowed
from Barbie, from girlcousin
or best, or best, from friend.
To braid her hair
was an offering.
To
braid her hair
a gift,
both to be the weaver
and to be woven.
Andrea
Friedman