Where Did the Weavers Go, by Amelia Gorman
The Jacquard loom rode us out of cottages.
Warp gave us weapons, their eyes were sharp.
Weft urged us on in rows; we went
to war on a many stringed horse.
They took us prisoner in bright cities
with birch bars holding us in.
Our labor’s fruit, once familiar
was taken from our bodies too soon.
The air loom drove us out of our minds.
Warp whispered to us in the dark.
Weft pushed us into the sunset, word
is there are still some places without
street lights, where a weaver can still
find work. Where an emperor asks
for clothes worthy of his shine.
We’ll work our bones back up to fingers.
You asked us for the impossible wove possible.
You gave us only enough gold to twine the yards.
What would be left for us after we cover you?
We can’t feed our children nothing.
We can’t spend nothing.
Just enjoy the sun on your skin.
Just go forth in nothing
while we walk away glittering.
Amelia Gorman writes stories, poems, and code in Minnesota. You can read more of her work in Liminality Magazine, Eternal Haunted Summer, and Star*Line and find her on Twitter at @gorman_ghast.
Art by: Amanda Bergloff