Kelley J. White
The maiden of gold
spins her hair into wires
to bind up her husband,
man of lead and brass,
she weaves a web to hold him
away from her bed.
She’ll spin his hair into
a ladder of barbed wire,
hold her children in her arms,
climb it into the sun;
oh her tender bare feet.
Her youngest is diamond,
her hair is her mother’s
finest thread.
She has woven a blanket of snow
to weigh down her father’s chest
when he weeps his aloneness.
The oldest child has locks,
bright black curls
he can twist into arrows
tipped with his mother’s teeth;
she no longer needs
to speak.