after Shadows 6 (silkscreen) by Adrienne Waterston

Did we learn it from Penelope?
This act of making marks upon the world—
we pass our shuttles back and forth across
this warp and leave a trail of color—while
the world would rather look at us, assess
our virtues, carve our torsos into stone,
pin up our bodies in the sky—a star
to tack each elbow, foot, and wing in place—
record us, hold us still, and make us small
and portable to fit between the sheets
of parchment.
             This is the work our mothers did:
taught us to make an art of our existence
when the artists kept us framed against a wall,
to clothe and cover, mend the garments rent
by work or love or carelessness, a basket
in the corner piled high with evidence
of our dysfunction, waiting to be fixed,
be seen and healed, to feel our fingers working
in and on and through them.
                           Penelope knew
her own undoing. Saddled with a hundred
men to feed, she worked by hand, began
a shroud to hide herself behind while weaving
misdirection into every line. A picture
woven slowly takes you by surprise.

We started pressing images through screens
and dipped our fingers into light blue paint,
traced circles where our mouths would go,
pressed words into a page and felt relief.
We left our shadows tucked among the weft,
our thumbprints stored in dimples in the clay,
the pressure of our arms embossed in ink—
and stitched into the hem of everything
our handiwork compels us into being.