The Weaver
A Poem by Sam Bowyer
A closed door takes mercy on me
Undoings don’t need another victim
I choke on missed opportunity
But my lungs are full of thick, hot air that smells like dew in the morning
When a bird gets the worm another
starves to death
That is our practice, our coveted ties
Falling doesn’t have to end in regret
It’s just a string of delicate lies
The weaver is taking me apart
Apart to bind centuries of hiding, eroding
She carries me on her back until she puts me back together
Just to reduce me to nothing when I fail
I invite failure, missed opportunity, descendence
I am a victim, but only under the dirt and pit that spreads and flows through me
I’m small, hidden, and glad of it.