Take your red string and pull down the sky.
A drop of blood in the shape of a rooster
crowing twice is all I see,
patches of memory not my own but
some other woman’s.
Little brown toes dip into
mud mounds and grass and it
still feels like home.
The rooster crows a third time.
These dark eyes which can’t see
further than the thick rotting fence can see
far-off constellations of nesting birds
and all the things
our mothers taught us.
She took her red string and pulled me
down, down
past the checkered cloth
and the dinner table
where she sat to love and eat and
love again
fiercely
where she sat to unwind spools
of scarlet thread.
And wagon wheels and flowers and heaven and sex
and man and woman and angels and blood
and chicken eggs —
all spinning circles laid over
spinning circles!
One century apart,
she and I lay our backs
across the heat of religion,
across the warmth
of a full belly,
across all the things
our mothers taught us.