My hands offend
you. They nurture
sin and lose

their color, pulled
back as skin
from sacred grapes.

Abandoned,
I spin spider silk
into a noose

you soon unravel.
I hold fast
to tangled thumbs.

The threaded bone
treads soft.
I am woven.

Am I not
your imitation
of the divine?

Intimate creation
stitched in sky,
who are you

to lay claim
to the loom
and its design?