She Who Knits in the Buddhist Monastery Her bare toes nudge the barn floor from her caned rocking chair. Her fingers knit stripes, cables of mantle and crust, riffs of watersheds running down to ruffled-water blue binding. Ribbed fabric slumps around her knotted calves like lazy Vermont mountains. I pass near her. I hear a […]Read more "She Who Knits in the Buddhist Monastery"
She keeps asking why I’ve come here— what spirit called me deeper or what bet I’d lost: the land baron and breathing wet and full with pine. He keeps naming me baby— I cannot be angry with a holy jaw. The hawk guards the tongue, the mouth— I watch the feathers fall […]Read more "Teaching in Pembroke, North Carolina"