Mills

Thinking about place.  Mountains are snow capped here and I think about Bhanu's poem, one that I translated, that is about place and naming.

Threads are a continuous bound line.  Made by fibers.  Women have been weavers and garment makers.  We make and unmake gossip and rumor.  Also think about Ntozake Shange's novel and their weavers.  

How narrative does not stop at the loom or needle.  Speaking of fibers and fabric as women's work and not art but craft.  Having returned to that fabric shop and paid entirely too much for jersey.  Damn.  And Caridad has kept her promise, she's writing again. 

Moving away from mountains, towards a Mill.  It is no longer May and I can write now.  I can write love.