What Never Asked to Be Believed

Eleven days the sky has kept its silence, and never asked to be believed. A boy set down a dead woman’s shawl at dusk, and never asked to be believed.

Three months he swept a stall no wage was owed him for, and carried home what she once wore like a debt he’d chosen — and never asked to be believed.

Nine seasons cleared upon a Dye Lane page no hand would sign, the ink alone stood surety for the color, and never asked to be believed.

Indigo does not require a witness to have been true inside the vat; it kept its promise through the dark alone, and never asked to be believed.

They wrung a rag from a dyer’s wife gone down beside the Ulev well — dark as steeped tea, her own stain and the drought’s no longer separable, and never asked to be believed.

Her mind came back before her legs would trust her, and she gave her name to the healer unbidden — the one plain truth of that whole morning, and never asked to be believed.

I sign the hem of everything I finish. I need a hand to read the mark and say it’s mine. Tell me, weaver, what your color ever proved before you claimed it — and never asked to be believed.

Let the boy keep his name uncounted. Let the ledger keep its blank column standing. Zara, this city holds itself up daily on the threads that never needed telling, and never asked to be believed.