Atropos: a Pieta

  
 Remember what the gods have left
 me,
         the cheap dye of this thread staining
 my fingers.
  
 You think I have forgotten what light
 fathers?  Or wind--
                                 Two hags call me
 "sister," but I
  
 touch the wound every fiber
 becomes, measured from my elbow
 across
             to your blue heart.