There is more than one
Tongue to cut, Tereus.
The king
Who takes what he wants never takes
Enough.
Quivering stumps will sing,
Fires leave a stinging tang.

Squelched into Arachne’s form,
Arms, legs, head; you
Impressed the shape of your
Scales on my skin,
Battering.
But women have shuttles too,
And fingers long weave
Wefts and warps in telltale patterns,
Meandering their way from eye to eye.

Athena is not only a patroness of weaving,
A bacchanalia is more than women feasting,
Replacing the blood that we loose.
Frenzied women have torn and scattered
Kings before.

We are only flesh once the bones are broken.

That much acclaimed seed
From your loins will soon fill
Your own protruding belly.
Procne procuring the roast,
I will turn the spit.

Turn.

Behold then my bespattered body,
And the head I hold;
No blood, no human warmth will ever
Warm your limbs again.

Let the spit turn. Let the feast begin.

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