Mitchochondrial Eve 10.26.12 by Bettina Judd

The woman with a not quite toddler on her hip weaves at a loom.
She is full of is and she is standing. How she weaves with one hand is
a mystery, even to her. But it has something to do with bone
straightness of her back. Her hair of long memory, the beach framed
in a window to her left, her sea foam dress. The fact of her weaving is
a necessity: How else will she clothe her round body, custom made
and still alive? The fact of her weaving is redundant: The child, made
of her textile DNA. The fact of her weaving is a promise: practice,
practicality, the sea.