It was before the harp, before rain or words
Before the ox waking in ice.
Before the great warmth turned down in the granaries.
Before the women carding the wool by its temperaments,
Spinning the flaxes away from the rusts, in the valley
Of the stitching in the dresses they will wear tonight.
Almost like a bird that knows it’s about to be born
Before the cut of cinnamon or the linnet-colored
Birthmarks marking with tarnish-scissors even paler things.
It was before I placed my body next to yours, longbone
To longbone making a kind
Of love that never curdled like the milk at mouths of caves.
It was a time when wren-boys
Were allowed (out loud) to cry.
It was all before the bleating or the tears
That I knew the animal must know, before his mistress does—
When she will cut the path toward where he is,
Must know the scent her footprints leave in straw
Must know no heaven, even if it’s there in its saffron
Slice, circled with thimbleberries, quick-silvering.
Put your hands
Into the sheets and tell me where the needles are.