my mother fed me stories
bite by bite with my daily rusk
word by word, hour by hour
a shield, a siege, a bow, an oar
I listened while she dangled treats
sang the runes, embraced
me in her shawl, wrapped me warm
through Mediterranean nights
long before I conned meaning
I prattled verses back to her
courtesy, feasting, kings & slaves
quarrels staged as sea voyages & killing
animals too, hunting dogs, birds & bats
sheep & swine & the hecatombs —
not numbers, not graves, but oxen
raised for the altar, tributes to gods
once I understood, I added beats
a scar, a rooted bed, a loom like my mother’s
& I her midnight unraveler
proving what I must remember
those were days when I saw light
saw rather than felt the break of day
you strum the lyre, she said, you hear
you feel, you sing, you will never want
so I became one of the chosen
daughters of the mothers’ line
our fingers webbed with weaving
we relate so the rest may see
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