Darning

The warp of my life is written
in the words no one dared to speak.
Secret shames and sorrows
spun fine, a story strong enough
to break open a heart. I spill
into these jagged places, emptied,
cavernous enough to hold all that is
in tenderness, seen. I am nothing.
This thread, the patterning, is at times
an incandescent agony
fed by each breath, choking.
This is who I am.
And. And the rich texture of my weft
welcomes, embracing. Many-stranded,
weaving me into being
until I taste the truth of a fierce
belonging to all the world.
This is my path
through the labyrinthine dark in which
we are becoming, always more real
as we touch and are touched in turn.
All the songs we’ve ever sung
play my bones, a meal fit to feed
this burgeoning as we unfold and
soften into our own strange shapes.
This thread, then, a mending
to bring us home at last
in ourselves and in the certainty
that we, too, are held.