I never buried you, you who inched your way
blind down a seamless corridor,
nestled within me for one spare
season, sewing a crimson fabric

which once I sewed,
sewers and sown as we
all once were, stitching each
moment closer to breath. Blood

brocade of our first, wordless homes,
inheritance no less than quilts of soil,
or sky-borne silk of breathing stars,
our days of flesh and earth and ash.

Embroidered a live constellation
pulsing with beats, an intimate
crinoline we both wore, your outside,
my inside, together interwoven.

One stitch dropped, one skipped
beat, a silent tearing opened
between us -- you skirted

birth, fabric seething with life
unraveling in rivulets,
a shimmering garnet
pool at my feet.

Stripped. One livid remnant
curling a thumb-sized
question caught me

at sunsets when crimson laces the sky,
or dark-eyed poppies nod in the distance,
or gray-gauze clouds spatter the earth.

I turn slowly now, catch the hand
of August winds pulling my skirt.
There, then, I hear you, I hear
you answer.