Jude Marx

Weaving

Each blade of grass is the invention
of a foreign body,
a flooded field,
a tangled mass of splinters
opening.

I tell the wheelbarrow shadow
to leave me on the hay bale
in the middle of the field
so I can wait for the supermoon.

The dead grass shudders
around me and rain comes

to paint me
stain me
make me
wet tissue see-through,
shower curtain beautiful
in the patches of moonlight.

When we were young
we pulled up dead grasses
and wove them into halos,
placed them on each other’s heads

as if we were the birds of the Serengeti
who blade by blade weave grasses
into baskets for their young,
suspend them in tree limbs,
perfectly tangled,
dense enough to keep rain
from tiny beaks.

Here, silos rise like dying trees
tombstones of last year’s yield.
The moon hangs heavy
between them.

When I open my mouth
my body is a basket
collecting light.

 

 

Jude Marx was a member of the 2013 Albuquerque UNIDOS poetry slam team that represented the city at the Brave New Voices. Recipient of a Scholastic Art & Writing Silver Key award, Marx writes because she finds poetry necessary.

GestureJude Marx