ANGIE MACRI

MOIRAE, DAUGHTERS OF NIGHT

The heart on the palm of the hand
was drawn in ink across the lines,
what fate dictated with its loom,
its threads. Hold still, we’d say,

and bite our lip to get the shape
just right, sometimes as a bubble
with a spot of shine, or punctured 
by an arrow, feathered staff.

My mother had me wash it off, 
first thing. I learned to weave 
under her eye, and my hands had 
to stay clean. She never wore

jewelry except her wedding ring,
a band of gold, plain and thick,
ordered from a catalog, not having 
time to bother with all that. Eve 

spun even the sunbeams, full 
of guilt as fruit and children, 
apple cheeked with cores of sin. 
We would become old women, 

but until then, the silver river pulled us in 
above our heads at night in dreams.
My mother had me wash it off, first
thing, unless I kept my fist closed.

__________

ANGIE MACRI IS THE AUTHOR OF SUNSET CUE (BORDIGHERA), WINNER OF THE LAURIA/FRASCA POETRY PRIZE, AND UNDERWATER PANTHER (SOUTHEAST MISSOURI STATE UNIVERSITY), WINNER OF THE COWLES POETRY BOOK PRIZE. AN ARKANSAS ARTS COUNCIL FELLOW, SHE LIVES IN HOT SPRINGS AND TEACHES AT HENDRIX COLLEGE.