I'm a great admirer of modern art, and especially Louise Bourgeois' work. I'm a fan of Maman and the hand sculpture symbolizing 'give and take'. This is a rather very simple poem on mother as a weaver. Which obviously can't possibly complement her exceptional work.
Our house is a loom
Of eight-legged pillar,
Mother taps her feet on the wooden bolt,
The machine is oiled.
She throws the shuttle to and fro. One thread
Lapping another, and the whole yarn entwines –
My naked body clothed with her skin
Her black cotton hair, my roof
Her womb: the veins throating out green and red fabric,
An ongoing work.
She taps her feet,
Throws the shuttle to and fro till late
We stay alive, our breads on the table.
She scurries for spools and needle. To stitch
Our torn shirts and split skin.
Our house is a loom, her shuffling hands
A constant toil – mother,