The Clew

In the ninth year,



a high, bright room



received the secret wheel.



Outside, near the sky,



 



a tangle of trees,



the sound of sea.



The spinster,



her hands showing 



 



wet, bloody with light,



shuddered.



Beneath her weight,



the stool was still.



 



She dressed the distaff,



hairs hanging off



like cornsilk, unspun—



a pale, worsted pistil,



 



which she twisted



into tufts 



of fiber, pinned



to the spindle: speed 



 



made a swatch 



of her fingers, 



braided, unbraided—



almost touching



 



the warming thread.



Being lulled,



I looked below



to her naked feet:



 



to where they beat



time against the treadle—



patter-pattern



without sound.



 



The wooden machine



sloughed off the skein.



I bore it to the basin:



crushed cochineal,



 



incarnadine.



Dripping, it dried,



caked with color



like bloodcrust in hair—



 



I evened the line.



Slowly the twine



whispered and wound:



a sphere.



 



In this way 



I gave you 



a light burden



to carry unclothed



 



into the tunnel—



you will want



to find your way back.