Cloth, oh it spins tall tales
lays the table, picnic gale
oh, though the crumbs are stale
threadbare back, Godiva trailed
horseshoes from her loosened nails
oh, this weaver wears no veil
Hands gloved to touch love.
Lacking teeth, this sister latches
all the doors
catches no action
– holding traction paused her claws
even odd she tapes the lot-
snatches space to snore
inbetwitching keeping score
she measures your yawns
A woven blanket on her knees.
At the back, comes she who smacks, her lips
tightens threads and cracks, her whip
reaches in the sack, where snips
of black slip in ships through the rips…
Pus, whispered the cat as she clacked,
Us hush, don’t fuss
she shushed, no rush, sweeping brush.
Scraps cushion her feet.