I think this is the first poem I've posted here. Unleash on it. Show it no mercy.
The tag says
the name of the pattern is
sewn by the hands of Indonesian women.
Sitting on the bed, the quilt stretches away
in a series of interlocking isosceles triangles
white toward me
like flying geese
and I recoil cross-legged (Indian style?)
against the nonexistent headboard.
It's not that a quilt is a lousy metaphor
for human existence and diversity
It's not that the triangles
are such solid representations
of some feared or beloved triune deity;
My anxiety does not rest here.
The geese, honking and flailing,
assault and fall back,
a guerilla phalanx of my own
fears and misunderstandings:
geese in flight
and my retreat into
my sage walls.