Like fine red veins in yolk these bends
pulse so you’ll grow,
lithe and reaching.
These turns burn, more like buried
than burrowing, head-against-stones in the dark,
hard, blind weaving.
But beneath honeycomb graves there are rumors of Water
that will run through our cells, roll down
sweet mighty stream.
I’ll keep twisting deep, sink, come and drink
of the mystery; you’ll spread, mirror of seeking,
as you gulp light, bear,
Melissa Weaver lives in Harrisonburg, Virginia, where she manages to tend to a steady husband, a preschooler, toddler, and baby, an unruly backyard garden, and occasionally a poem or two. A former English and English Language Learner teacher, she seeks to be deeply rooted in her neighborhood, building relationships with kids and families who have come from all over the world. There’s a place for her at the Trinity’s table, and she is learning that’s enough. She and her family find fellowship at Harrisonburg Mennonite Church. Her work has appeared in The Christian Century, Mothers Always Write, The Anabaptist Journal of Australia and New Zealand, and Transforming, a publication of Virginia Mennonite Missions.