I make a needle from a porcupine quill, sew feet to legs, lift spine onto my thighs.
I put on my rib and collarbone.
I pin an ear to my head, hear the waxwing's yellow cry. I open my mouth for purple berries, stick on periwinkle eyes.
I almost know what it is to be seen.
My throat enlarges from anger. I make a hand to hold my pain.
My heart a hole the size of the sun's eclipse. I push through the dark circle's tattered edge of light.
All day I struggle with one hair after another until the moon moves from the face of the sun and there is a strange light as though from a kerosene lamp in a cabin.
I pun on a dress, a shawl over my shoulders.
My threads knotted and scissors gleaming.
Now I know I am seen. I have a shadow.
I extend my arms, dance and chant in the sun's new light.
I put a hat and coat on my shadow, another larger dress. I put on more shawls and blouses and underskirts until even the shadow has substance "