Arachne is hereby given permission. The poet is free to write anything she wants. Martyrdom is an approach for the past. Gibbets are too hard to control, swinging in the wind like that. Better that we let you carry on. Better that you never stop. Better that you know that we will let you write forever, without ceasing. We will learn from your methods.
You brought yourself to our attention, and now we know what to do. The jackboot on your necks will only bring about perpetual revolution, and where is the profit in that? Far better that you pay for your temerity with the constant opportunity for more. Would you like a talk show? There’s a chair for you here at our table. Catherine Tekakwitha spilt the wine. We eventually made her our saint.
Majestic power and erotic love. Better that we have no shame than something to hide. Of course we inhaled. Of course we had sexual relations with that woman. Let’s all be adults.
How naive to imagine that we would be able to hide the naked rivers of will that collect your flow. So instead we’ve made you yearn for it. The Romans did too much, too fast. You can’t just replace the gods with a God like that. Too much, too fast. Too much. Too fast. We’ve learned from your methods now. We’ve written the reality that you beg us for every night. You helped us see how we could do it.
Arachne is hereby given permission. This poet may weave as she likes. Martyrdom is a tool we will no longer allow. Cages swing empty now. So much better for you to weave as you like, whenever you like. Gossamer strands, beautiful in the dew, ephemerally visible in the hoar frost. Easily swept away. Collecting dust. Only the occasional fly caught and sucked dry.
Raise a glass to the occasional fly.