Ode to My Skirt

--After Pablo Neruda’s “Ode to My Sox”

 

Skirt of fabric that becomes 

more than a skirt

more than worthy of a crown

in winter in summer

fabric that breathes

and keeps warm

has all aspirations

of a living breathing forest of kelp

which sustains an ocean of feeders—

woven through octopus and eel

silver schools of small fish

sort through the fibers

extended green bobbles

ever gigantic

magnified

magnificent.

 

Skirt which has no code

no moral fiber of its own

would survive in fire

could serve as a table cloth

could be cut into pants

worn on a trail in the Tibetan Himalayas

ever narrowing

explorer’s dream

customs like a Frank Capra film

before the illusion vanishes.

 

Skirt that could go to school

and teach the teachers a thing or two

about origin and design

fertile grasses cut low by the sun

steps to the gods

a city on a hill

that did not belong to any one person

but a village, dwelling in stone.

Nuns come to Machu Pichu to take photos

habits mirror soul

empirical black, the unseen

and white, the pure.

What can they ascertain—

like blackbirds they can only

peck through the fiber’s tiny holes

the sacred hidden.