My tongue, fossil in my mouth

only remembering echoes
of slip, dart, curl 
cannot move to enunciate
the beauty of your silken patchwork soul
sewn together not with intentions 
but -intent- 
taut as spiderwebs. Tensile strength
achieved the cruelest way: winnowing
all the extraneous, stripped. Leaving you raw; 
but still you take up the spindle 
take up the needle 
You wear the slub-scars, saying “these are mine”, you 
unfurl your soft-rough tapestry 
(sand-washed, clay-painted, mud-spattered delight) 
“Here. Look at this life.”