Shrine to my foremothers |
Lace
In small Mediterranean towns
women, stooped, and girls
with rag-soft bodies
are making lace intricate as brain circuitry.
See how the light spins through,
imprinting the wall—
not with a maze, but a map
to trace your way home
to women yet unborn who’ll find
the lace at the bottom of a cedar chest,
and marvel.
When the world is like a skein
unravelling, look again to the lace: see
how absence forms its pattern,
and purpose fills even the smallest space.
* Reprinted from Eye to Eye: Poems by Maria Terrone, Bordighera Press, 2014, p. 104