The Fates

North is east, south is west,

first is under and over

the last—all of our spells

are spilled and lost.

We are the swallows you see,

whose tongues are cut,

whose wings are clipped,

bunched on a wire.

And we are the spinster angels

driven from God:

we have saved our scissors

and kept our needles—

four old women who knit

and knit the winds,

and then in a muttering rage

unthread the clouds.

We are done with porches

to sit on, finished

with trees and branches.

Daylight for us was bad,

but night will be better:

star and planet falling,

lion and scorpion down…

Think of your rooms

and your furniture,

make up your beds

and pocket your keys:

You that have shadows

will keep them, you

without shadows will die:

Here is the glass we look

through, and these

are the holes we make:

And now the threads we warp

and twist, the words

we spit, the spell we throw…