What The Weaver Knows by Wendy Klein

I’m not just any maiden lounging in the millefleurs,
there to bait the trap. On my canvas, invisible

to the innocent, fish knives gleam, wait to scale
your silver, crack open your heart. Listen;

there are rumours of drowning by metaphor:
the flicker of dance, the aspiration of flight,

the whale-bone squeeze that robs breath, moulds
flesh into enticement, promises nothing.

Embrace the rush of darkness, the drip and seep
of 4 AM when eyelids are peeled back, lashes bat

and flap, when the tick of the body is loudest
as light advances, twists, morphs, begins its birth trial:

crown of head, shoulders, the buttocks’ heart-cushion,
legs and feet, their twitch and kick built-in.

No I’m not just any maiden, there to bait the trap, a silly pawn
in some hunter’s game. It’s the beast I covet:

the arch of his back, his mane’s rough silk, the heave
of his white, white breast. Look out, for only the canniest

can break into the spiked circle, where I spell-spin;
a sucker for unicorns; not much of a lady.

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