Before I Say So

A girl wore my blue like a debt already closed — I had not opened it. Not yet. Before I say so.

The dye does not ask whose hand dipped the cloth in the vat. It remembers only water and indigo — before I say so.

The Archivist counts his distinctions: a lie from a made thing, a borrowed seal from an inherited one — before I say so.

But no ledger ever held what her shoulders carry now, lighter, walking, already half-believed — before I say so.

The loom does not care which fingers began the pattern. It finishes whatever is set before it — before I say so.

Nineteen years I called my name the only true thread, and mistook the signature for the weaving — before I say so.

Let the one who signed my name keep her forgeries. I keep a bolt of undyed linen — before I say so.

Tonight I will cut it and dye it the color she wore, and open, in my own hand, the debt — before I say so.

Some truths are not discovered. They are woven afterward, worn until they are true. I have said so now.