Promise me these things, because I can never see it in myself,
the girl I weave through the lines you love so well.
Tell me again so I can sleep tonight,
in the attic where they put my cradle when my toes touched the end
and my dollhouse when I could buckle my Sunday shoes.
Sing to me through the floorboards, because though I can only sleep alone
your voice makes it not quite so. A numinous hum woven
through the sway and glow of this weathered demesne.
Promise me these things, because I need to hear it again;
that my chapters are innumerable pearls rolling through your fingers
that my thoughts are silken strings woven into Arachne’s holy imbrication
that my words hold galaxies, prayerful stars, and planets with iridescent moons.