Arachne

I stitch the scenes 
                  of the gods' excesses— their

predilection for mortal flesh,
                  their fascination with trying out

the bodies of beasts; their indiscretions. 
                  I weave the cosmos as a tapestry—  

one side a knotted chaos 
                  of carried-over strings, 

the other a prized, pearled
                  sheen. This is nothing

but honesty, though it's also
                  artistry. The goddess was displeased

because she couldn't tell the truth 
                  apart from the lie. My lies

are magnificent— an archive of evidence,
                  a triumph of detailing. They will say

I was changed in punishment for my pride;
                  they will tell you I got only

what was coming. But those are rumors in
                  a web of trembling— I know I struck

a nerve. Thus they want censorship, book
                  burning, drastic revision. Scrub away

though they might, I swing by my own tensile thread
                  in the canopy. My children multiply.