Winter 1998 • Vol. XX No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1998 |

The Loom

My daughter called me shit, "Shit, shit, shit, shit!" For that, I slapped her face. So now I am a shit. Gasping and trembling we rolled over the rug that smelled like animal hair knotted by a tribe of sisters who understood geometry and deer menaced by the hunter's dogs. "My fault!" she begged, afraid to watch me cry, though I had learned to tolerate her tears. For months no plant or animal died to feed her. She was an angel and I was nectar, ambrosia. Girls for generations at the loom--if one is sick, her sister skips a knot and imperfection pleases the Lord in the work of his sorry children

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Gifts

By Joyce E. Peseroff

My daughter called me shit, "Shit, shit, shit, shit!" For that, I slapped her face. So now I am a shit. Gasping and trembling we rolled over the rug that […]

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