Poetry: [if you are a medieval tapestry - ]

if you are a medieval tapestry -
a dusty old fabric whose colors
are the dull dead flesh of peppers
and apricots, plums and pears -
the wartorn breeding grounds
of sugar flies -
then i am just the tiny fingers
of a serving girl, cracked
cuticles that mimic
the bleeding of chapped dry
lips touching lips on the eve
of battle.
i am the fingers that flitter
lightly down the spine of your
immense woven body -
a ravaged space of bones
and filaments scarred
by wounds of the flesh -
knights without heads
and maidens with long
golden braids of hair.
my touch
sends your sinews into
rippling spasms - a gentle knocking
against the stone walls behind you.

no wind, merely, my touch.

and, if you are a medieval tapestry,
then i am the hands that wove
you on the loom - rings of woolen
strands looped about the gentle
waists of each finger.
we are married by sweat
and blood - the maker/the laborer
with the beautiful/
the horrible stretching of fabric.