It is the job of appointed bards
to blare new fables daily.
All hail the king! what they must sing
even when they know it’s silly.
The lyres are loud and always part
of making legends from myth,
like how each king saved everything
with a gift from an underground smith.
But there are other ways to tell a tale:
we know by now the value
of a shroud, a drape, of tapestries
because of what they tell you.
The besieged weave too, may hide their looms
but know well how to shuttle
‘round the rigid lines of what is warped,
are fully prepared to scuttle
the whole design if they’re so inclined–
some yarns are simply cruel.
Unraveling is a strategy
when you’re flanked by fools.
Some legends crafted from whole cloth
can be fought with embroidered cunning.
Let linens get thin with what’s not in,
say everything else with couching.
Professor Emerita of English at Aquinas College, Michelle lives and writes (mostly) from Grand Rapids, Michigan. This poem is for all the knitters, crocheters, and Aunt Tifas who were out in public with their arts on No Kings Day, carrying on a tradition at least as old as Penelope.