This poem is based on the myth of Arachne, a mortal transformed into a spider by Minerva, as punishment for weaving a bit too well.

I dreamed of her again last night.

She stood over me, inspecting

the weave I had created, looking

for flaws among its brazen threads.

It shone out with even more

brilliance in the dream – their

wanton lips the red of wild poppies,

lustful eyes a deep Tyrrhenian

blue. 

It was a triumph; its beauty

and passion matched only by the

elegance of the gods themselves. 

In my dream I watched her

understand a truth:

sometimes a mortal woman can

make the gods cry.

Enraged, she pulled at its threads,

unmade it before my eyes.

She tore me down, transformed me,

told me which was my place.

Now I sit here and spin a new thread.

My children and I are dream weavers –

we create the sky from pieces of glass,

we make sunsets from orange petals.

We are the artists.

We are the spinners.

They call me a monster

but all I ever did was

to try to outshine the sun