Joanna M. Weston

my grandmother's mother
gave birth to spiders
cupped them in her hands
read their antiquities
and encapsulated histories
between emperor and dictator

she tangled centuries about her hands
and wove, wove the cloak
over her shoulders, breasts and belly
pubis and thighs -
she covered everything
with the fabric of marching legions
until her head bent
under the weight of sound
eyes closed and fingers stilled

the spiders continued to web
and her breasts stained
the never-ending pattern with milk -

she grasped granite boulders
thrust them between her teeth
and swallowed with whisky

mice groomed her raveled hair
embroidered jewels in her lashes
while she lay, breasts dried and falling
cloak open and green
body tired, voice rising
winged and feathered to find prey

she coiled fire between her legs
nursed it in her womb
shucked it with the conception of daisies
white, purple and yellow
illumination for moles
and lantern to the planets

my grandmother's mother
stripped her skin
planted her walking bones
twined willow-herb with arteries
and swung, scattering petals
into the river of her blood