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In Consideration of Love

— Maya Phillips

Even now, on some faraway
island almost too distant
to consider, a woman awake
at her loom as the house settles
in its sleep, her fingers undoing
the threads all night, this night like
any other, that finds her bed
abandoned, untouched save
for a dusting of moonlight—
we might consider it quaint, almost
romantic, were it not for the hands
stiff, rheumatic, ugly with intention,
the fingers working without stop
as though the body has no pain
to suffer like grief, as though
the thought has never, in all these
nights, occurred to her, how she
used to have such beautiful hands.


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