the lady of the kerchief walks, somehow,
upright, stooped, and slow;
her footstep falls through sleeping halls
in ways similar to snow
please peek not at her drooping hair,
neither at her ankles;
follow not her drowsy curves,
admire not her angles
she beats ideas out of these phenomena
like dust from a tapestry;
tha-thump against the front porch
tha-thump against basketry
she beats verses from these curses
like the dust from a carpet;
the dust, she cans for her shelf
but the rug she lugs to the market
curled, colored, furled, and tucked
under one long, curving arm;
she drags her wares to city fairs
and disorients with charm
she comes back to cradle
and ladle, back and forth,
a paltry balm, from palm to palm:
her dusty scurf of worth
when she walks, she walks, somehow,
upright, stooped, and slow;
but her blood flames through sleeping veins
shadowless and aglow
