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My chosen object is a woven shawl that began from a failure. The weft here, composed of baby alpaca wool, was originally the warp of another weaving. My good friend picked up this soft brown wool in Bolivia some years ago. She has since passed.
Clad in polka dots,
Eyes glitter despite wet toes,
Exchanging this love.
After days of rain, the sunlight
shimmers – dappled shadows dance.
Living tradition,
Colors bleed transformation,
An elsewhere awaits.
What do our bodies know that
text cannot articulate?
Shuttling asleep,
Lines collapse past and future.
Who holds the power?
Resisting capture, its wings
flutter, fighting off the pin.