Artisans

Marissa Genta Pineda

We were told we could not craft Paradise

But you just tied back your hair, Gave me a sidewise glance, And sketched your plans in charcoals Over the flat, lifeless words of the prophets.

I hugged myself in your shadow, While you worked felting the wool of the universe, Agitating into cohesion the vibrant fibers: pink and gold and cerulean, Sloshing water merrily over your toes as you went.

You handed me a length of blue-white silk And tufts of mossy green wool And bid me wring them all together To bind the earth to the sea

And the stars to the skies.

We were not struck down.

I smiled, relieved. A little surprised. You laughed, defiant. Victorious. Then you picked up your inks and your brushes And painted daylight on your skin.

I clung to the shadowed temple of tradition, Afraid to let go of the unyielding granite We were told to worship

Until you pressed soft clay into my hands And said “It gives. Shape what you want.”

You left me to it, fingers red with slip, And snatched up handfuls of seeds, Kneaded them into the clay Pine cones and acorns in mud pies and mountains, Whispering mists to make them live.

We plucked ripe fruit and ate, spun willow roots to riverbanks, Watching afar the children and geese and goats at play And we cackled and sang, mouths stained purple with berries When men asked what we thought we were doing To trifle with the powers meant only for gods.

You set down your homespun in the grass, Tested the heft of mallet and wedge And padded inside the temple on resolute feet. You pried up the crumbling tiles to expose the musty Mold-black foundation of belief

And mouse brown carcasses of dogma.

Then you turned, pressed your tools into my hands, Wiped your palms on the saffron folds of your gown And we walked back to the greening fields Me, trailing behind the moonlit messenger moths That danced around you like stars on water.

You braided a basket of elephant grass and hemp, Placed within it your needles, brushes, and scissors

Tied with twine and vine and fox fur.

You set this offering at my feet at your farewell And winked, “Use them wild.”

I painted my face with moonlight then And unspooled my heart thread To sew wild roses onto your sleeve My fumbling skills no measure of my love, my thanks One day, I will be an artisan too.