Yvette Thomas

The Weaver Girl's Critique of Practical Reason

I worked designing clouds. Clothes , I mean. Or I was just a girl. I was both. Also, a fairy. A princess. -hime is princess, you know.

But most of the time I am just called seamstress. Weaver girl. Same thing. The pay is good.

I was swimming when I dropped my feather-cloak, my raiment, my dress, my skirt
and a boy from across the river found it, and came back across the bridge, rain soaked. Feigning ignorance.
Said he couldn't find my clothes anywhere.

But I'm a princess, I know a lie when I hear it. I told him my name: Orihime .
He said, what's your real name . I said, I can't pronounce it . 

It was the end of spring, it was the Hyades. Hence, the rain.

                                                             *      *      *

My father was the only communist left in the county.
In the country, maybe even.
The only one who wore his accoutrements on his balding forehead anyway.

He fucked up my legend. Goddamn it,
I just want to go home. I can hear it in my sleep, my sewing machine.
My loom , I mean.

I snuck away over the bridge to find the boy who took my skirt. My dress. My heavenly raiment.
But the bridge had split in the night.
If I ever see that boy again, I'll kill him. I mean, marry him .

My mother, she's in heaven.
Any day she'll come back for me.