Weaver Poem by Simpa Omoluabi

From the trees, from the grooves, from the fountains
the brides are compelled to a weaver's shed.
Who are you with queer workings that detains
ghosts, leaving chores, to observe you instead?
That a deity find challenge in your eyes,
has contingencies: by feats are gods made.
What has a goddess to prove 'gainst a maid
that she appears disapparent in lies.
Official idols are prometphobic,
and have their stooges whom pry for the proud:
should the gifted be apologetic
that an areola aureate does becloud
her senses, his brain, that a fate tragic
in such a dubious way appeals poetic.

Copyright © 2011 Weaver by Simpa Omoluabi