THINGS SHE DID

Once I was a fisherman until I caught the talking fish and ate it—against its objections— and now I cannot speak of anything but blue.

Once I was a bookbinder until I bound a volume of verses about flowers. Now I am trapped by fragrances and the lullabies of bees.

I was a grave-digger alone among the stones with the cool earth around me until all I could do was sing to the shovel, and the clay.

Once I was a weaver but one day my fingers tangled in the web and pulled me in. Now I go on and on, a tapestry of scrap and knot.