What The Weaver Knows by Wendy Klein

I’m not just any maiden lounging in the millefleurs, there to bait the trap. On my canvas, invisible

to the innocent, fish knives gleam, wait to scale your silver, crack open your heart. Listen;

there are rumours of drowning by metaphor: the flicker of dance, the aspiration of flight,

the whale-bone squeeze that robs breath, moulds flesh into enticement, p…