Poet Jeffery Beam

The Loom

Willie Mae Gill
1903 - 1995

She lived for cotton,
the growth of sons,
one daughter lame, a mother
ornery, mean.
She walked with coleus,
gloxinia, begonia stems,
rooting in a well-dug humus from
the woods. Sung hymns,
washed pots, forgave.
Left nothing undone.
Molted in summer's tomato-scent air,
in winter took wings
warped by textile's shuttle.
No searing hardship, no
humidity, feared.
Not any fabric
weaves on any loom.

From The Broken Flower, manuscript.

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Last updated: October 1, 2012