The Aftermath of the 92 Elections

Do the arithmetic. She was born in '65. This was late '72,
early '73. So, seven and some. I sat reading in the kitchen.
She came up, took my hand and led me down.
She had done the prettiest thing.

A friend had given us yarns, fat spindles from Jantzen,
discards from a change in the yearly colors. She had woven
around the white-painted posts of her basement bedroom, a twelve-foot,
orange and blue-rust web all in one plane three feet off the floor,
chest-high for her, dense in places, but with gaps she could stand in.

She showed me how, when you put one hand above, one below
and moved each slowly toward the other, it looked like water.
She had me try. I waded in thigh deep.

She'd found a candlestub stuck to a plate. She set it on the web
and asked for matches. She took such care to light it.
I turned off the lamp and closed the stairwell door.
She stood in the middle, the candle burning by her shoulder,
just looking a long time. She bent down to make it eye level.
She came to my side, leaned her head against my waist
and we both watched it shine.

Now this woman stands at a certain distance and calls me Dad.
A woman stands beside her, faces her, turns through
that set of angles called lover. Last month they said
they'd move into my guest room the day after the election
if Oregon's homophobes passed Measure Nine. I said fine.
That measure lost, but one like it won in Colorado.
Look, these women are weaving their prettiest thing. Whoever dared
vote to tear that, to cut it, come talk to me. Let me show you.
We stand heart-deep in this web. Below, it's like water.