I saw her by twilight
Sewing memories into a sack
--- A stained worn bedsheet
     Or a funeral shroud, drug across the open earth.

She sewed in two living eyes,
The whites streaked with fresh, red capillaries;
For a mouth a streak of red tape,
Stitched in place with thick, black thread;
More coarse sewing at the crotch
As she divided legs from the sack
With basting stitches of rough black twine.

The golem stood, its unformed chest
Heaving with breath
Even as its neck took shape
And the wrinkled bedsheet thighs
Grew firm and full as flesh.

The head grew hair --- there are stories of such things ---
And the pale white toes
Grew nails of perfect crimson.

 The golem blinked
And for a moment tried to speak,
Struggling at the stitching across its mouth.
Then silence; the golem smiled a Mona Lisa smile.
It shook its tresses,
Bent its head to study its armless, sexless body,
Then turned its face to its maker,
Eyes carrying the question, "Why?"

The seamstress laughed,
"I deal in memory and mystery.
I offer nothing I've not already placed inside."

The golem turned  and walked away,
Each step molding flesh.
The feet formed delicate arches
And ruby lips chafed in protest
At that first, rough stitching.

10/24/1999
 

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