Scrambling over the teasel,
we entered the marsh.
Whispering to my tall sister—
I could see no hunters.
On an abandoned rusty boat,
a great blue heron perched.
My sister cautioned me to
aim my feet at the roots
of the reeds and the cattails.
We’d conspired weeks to gather tules.
In a dream, a grandmother told us
to weave a cape, first cutting, then drying,
soaking reeds in salt water,
making time together
to twist reeds into strength.
Three snowy egrets stalked
slow through the muck.
Finding a place to steady ourselves,
we lay down our buckets, cut twine,
readied our shears.
Tall as these tules, my sister is
with her hair falling down silver, gold to her waist.
She has a beautiful dark daughter her mother ignores.
I am short with black, clipped hair.
My tall slim, fair-skin daughter hardly knows my mother.
We measure twine and slice reeds
leaving two leaves at the center— the heart.
Our buckets full, we retreat,
our rubber boots sinking
into smelly brown mud.
With enough return trips,
afternoons for twining souls,
we can cover ourselves regally.
We have found another world.