invisible weaver when asked what I do, invisible weaver. then quickly
before “but I see you, don’t I?” I define the occupation. some people’s
first image is a wooden loom in a slant-ceiling attic, shuttle skidding
warp-weft, shafts synching up down, no human in sight, so a ghost, a
spirit, they think I’m jiving. others see a humming fluorescent-bright
factory, high speed machines tooled to make mock Tibetan, Deco,
Navajo or whatever, but I’m not a worker disappeared or erased from
that scene either. patiently, though it’s no obligation of mine to sate a
stranger’s hunger, I say I repair, mend, in person, your secret failings.
the unraveling cashmere sweater sleeve where you tried to scrub out
the red wine, gash in your down coat, hole in your linen pants where
lust caught you on chain link. I fix so no one will suspect or guess your
carelessness, your mistake. I am the fix-it woman, reliable back-up
tactician, confidante. my phone number at your fingertips but not on
the fridge, with me you don’t risk exposure. invisible mender. invisible
mend. I’m the EMT of tear and torn, though this resuscitation demands
an appointment and you come to me on the sly. call me plastic
surgeon. Aunt Marge won’t have a clue her ancestral hand-me-down
scarf hung next to your beachtowel on a willow branch. invisible mend.
and me invisible, like your therapist in the restaurant pretending to be
a stranger. or invisible as a strawberry-field worker, grape picker, rest-
stop toilet cleaner, secretary, delivery driver, cashier. I am the woman
behind you on the subway staring at your exposed jacket shoulder
lining, the way a dermatologist debates whether to tell a stranger the
mole on his neck is a festering volcano