The Weaver

by Anais Kelsey-Verdecchia

Shhnk shnk

Shhnk shnk

The loom echoes

through the house.

Tomorrow she will bring

a new blanket down

and press it into my hands, saying

take it; I have too many.

I will curl under it

while coffee is poured

and biscuits are snatched

guiltily from a tin,

and read and read

and doze.

Sitting in the car

under the blanket

on the long drive home

I feel a pang of regret

that my children will

never know her.