How I'm Twisted

by Martha Bowden

My English DNA is stainless steel.
It makes me sit up straight
and enunciate.
It holds back primal urge,
freezes tears,
turns anger into words
with teeth.
It pretends to be clean.

My Irish strands are tattered,
eaten away by whiskey, famine,
fury and defeat. Prone to giving up.
The unraveling is humble.
It wails the heart's lament
from wind-pumped bags.
The cry of pipes mingles
with grey, constant mist
and the only rescue from
its promised doom
is to laugh.
Wit and whimsy bind the fray
with faerie stitches
that twinkle in the scar.

My Scottish twine has no time
for moist emotion or polished shine.
It takes me to thrift stores for smart-people clothes.
It gets me up early to do chores
and refuses charitiy,
and sends me to bed early
with happily tired muscles
under warm,
heavy wool.

These are my warp and weft.
Tiny spirals that dictate:
tight shoulders,
raw heart,
stubborn bones.
They give me my small face,
blonde hair
and sharp tongue.

But they
are not me. I
am the star-stuff that answered
the call of this cloth.
The magician.
I hold each piece
up to my light,
and wonder at the plain
and splendid creature
that's revealed.