Best Breads For Dipping

My mother weaving a tablecloth

At the edges there are
beautiful swirls, dark, stitches
eye pupils
gale that stab my mother with her shoelaces
aluminum. And
long string twists
creating small depressions,
faces in the thread tied
thousand times and spaces that will
giving names.

thought his words
intersect, needles
strike against strands that are read,
elusive, like a lost
water between the punch by:
concepts elongated
happiness, doubt, faith, home, children,
love, God, family,
seeping through his hands,
accurate and nerve shock.

My mother weaves a ruffled tablecloth
where I go, just open the window
day,
and I pushed the door and break
the yarn with my step,
doubtful
lost in the stairwell of the mosaic,
down
and my eyes are blurred, drunk for the first stitches

of an unknown light.

December 31, 2009 - January 1, 2010