The silk moon-
white cotton
candy cocoons,
wrapped in this
precious Commodity
those WORMS!
Teeming, writhing
space-taking
BLIND.
“Cock cock shuttle cock”
of the weaver
“Cock cock shuttle cock”
of the weaving machine.
One thread at a time
the purpose teased
from your cloak
Measured
Pulled
Stained
Sold
He does not think of you
as he wears your clothes,
as a thief
who thinks himself the greater
for his thievery.
Value-added
delusion draped
crimson, covered
with indignant shades of indigo,
HE wears the clothes of KINGS
not of worms.
At the board room table
from his cuff
flicks a speck of dust
while the weavers weep
and dream of wings.
—
Noel Wingard is a poet, artist, and published biophysicist. Her poems have been performed as interpretive dance internationally, exhibited at The Grotto, featured in Culture On the Line, as well as published in GROUND journal, Willows Wept Review, and Hail Muse! Etc. She is a two-time alum of the Ashbery Homeschool, a long-time member of The Virginia Center for the Book, and a member of Not-the-Rodeo Poets. She resides in the mid-Atlantic like an electron cloud.
