The tapestry must be frailed
if it is to survive, flipped over
to expose frayed threads and skipped stitches,
a patchwork of wars and erasures caught
in the act of re-membering
families and cities. The loom swoops
onward, mapping forgotten constellations,
the bodies of murdered women,
missing children, rosaries scattered
across the desert floor like broken stars.
The ancient contest calls for who
can spin the better story, tragic enough
to make the gods weep and repent,
a gnashing of teeth as the weave
is finally shredded, torn from our
fingers still pricked with blood.
Photo Credit: San Diego Air & Space Museum Archives
