Star Quilt

　　by Roberta J. Hill

　　 These are notes to lightning in my bedroom.

　　 A star forged from linen thread and patches.

　　 Purple， yellow， red like diamond suckers， children

　　 of the star gleam on sweaty nights. The quilt unfolds

　　 against sheets， moving， warm clouds of Chinook.

　　 It covers my cuts， my red birch clusters under pine.

　　 Under it your mouth begins a legend，

　　 and wide as the plain， I hope Wisconsin marshes

　　 promise your caress. The candle locks

　　 us in forest smells， your cheek tattered

　　 by shadow. Sweetened by wings， my mothlike heart

　　 flies nightly among geraniums.

　　 We know of land that looks lonely，

　　 but isn't， of beef with hides of velveteen，

　　 of sorrow， an eddy in blood.

　　 Star quilt， sewn from dawn light by fingers

　　 of flint， take away those touches

　　 meant for noisier skins，

　　 annoint us with grass and twilight air，

　　 so we may embrace， two bitter roots

　　 pushing back into the dust.

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