Pie For Dinner

My feet hit the dry, porous moss and let themselves briefly dictate the earth’s shape, my grandmother is running fast and I can’t keep up, a large beetle finds itself prisoner in my golden strands, it hisses as I scrape at its freedom. My skin buzzes, stomach folds itself into a tightly packaged evacuation. Pitted: rattled vessel sinks to an eruption! They all shake until wooden arms drape forward to a gradual tremble, we take a synchronized gulp of water. Splinters flicker on the sole of my soul as solemnly, it breathes together. Her feet hit the dry, porous moss and let themselves dictate, foreshadowed outlines, my movements assume themselves, as that is the trace I have of the woman who has wrapped herself in the bark of a birch tree. Blueberries spill from my hands, and find themselves on an eastern march to the lake. I will come back for them.

Pie For Dinner, 75 sq in. woven on a four-harness Macomber loom