Tea Party
A voice calls
from a woman who waits at a loom,
from a dawn of ashes and wind of blood and earth of dust.
She weaves with her words,
her tools
irony and old earth-shattering darkness.
She weaves herself out of the
storyline,
into a place of blue seas and moist green earth.
She weaves a self-portrait,
a masterpiece of the changing patterns of the unmoving stars.
Silent for the bloodless years she has woven her words
and ultimately she speaks,
for she has made herself the omega,
but she forgets how to say words,
so she can only hoarsely cry out in vain.
It rumbles through the tea room like a far away truck.