LETHA

LETHA

Now when she weaves,
she weaves everything blue
and not only because blue does
not reveal earth’s stain
as homespun left unlaved by larkspur
or indigo will. She keeps blue flowers
boiling all day in her dye-pots,
the bubbly-blue sap
of her fleece turning darker
and darker till she sees the Deep
churning under his ship
as he told it those nights
when his words held him close
to her, whispering he was the only
survivor. He flung his tales wide
as fishing nets in which she finds
herself still tangled, hearing
him liken her eyes to the harbor
lights leading the seafarer home
to a fair woman’s bed
where the coverlets
she has unwound from her loom
bear the blue names
he taught her to say like a charm
against doubt. She repeats
whem with each shuttle’s throw,
knowing someday she’ll sleep
under all Seven Seas of them,
sleep as the drowned women
he liked to sing about sleep,
having sunk so deep
into the blue,
blue repose of forgetfulness,
they need have no mortal
fear of the bottom.

--KSB

First published in Shenandoah: Appalachian Writers Issue