Dear loom, dear box skeleton,special ordered andhandcrafted from wood,you rest on the floorand wait for herto sit down with youand together weavefabrics for weddingsbetween lovers and warriors,the survivors, surviving.Your sturdy frameanimates her as livingportrait, simple as the chainon her glasses, the calm focus:steady hands on the shuttle,the weft and the warp,feet on the treadle.You obey the soft sheenof turquoise, cherry, and goldwrapped at the body's waist,your gift to the body,hundreds of bodies for the new year,for the blessings of ancestors.Sweet loom, old friend of an old woman,you are an ancestor she prays to,so that when her hair fallsnot as rain doesbut as nails the evening hangs on,and her hands slip no longerfrom silk but on walls in the darkhall to her room,her daughters will sadly dismantle you,remnant of a lost home, sacred language,coded inside her native language.When she passes,you will be stowed awayin the basement.You will remind us of her,you, loom, who have kept her company,nonjudgmental witness to her secrets.You will remember bestthe way she works, the spots on her legs,her bare toes peekingfrom the edge of her sarong,the slow motion of her handslapping flies in summertimeor the sound of gorges rushedfrom her face in the quiet hours of the clothwhen she was depressed, she was depressed—she pressed against you daily and wept.