my mother fed me stories bite by bite with my daily rusk word by word, hour by hour a shield, a siege, a bow, an oar I listened while she dangled treats sang the runes, embraced me in her shawl, wrapped me warm through Mediterranean nights long before I conned meaning I prattled verses back to her courtesy, feasting, kings & slaves quarrels staged as sea voyages & killing animals too, hunting dogs, birds & bats sheep & swine & the hecatombs — not numbers, not graves, but oxen raised for the altar, tributes to gods once I understood, I added beats a scar, a rooted bed, a loom like my mother’s & I her midnight unraveler proving what I must remember those were days when I saw light saw rather than felt the break of day you strum the lyre, she said, you hear you feel, you sing, you will never want so I became one of the chosen daughters of the mothers’ line our fingers webbed with weaving we relate so the rest may see