The lies our wise queen weaves cinch her chest.
“I am a dutiful wife,” she says. Breath hitches.
Expert hands guide the weft, tightens her skin.
Lies criss-cross Penelope's breast. Smile falters.
“Any other woman would do the same."
Her tapestry suffocates. Her weaving continues.
This is another thing she endures alone.

The sun sets and Penelope’s bra falls.
Lies she unweaves while her binder unhooks
warp weights—woman wife mother daughter-in-law queen.
She rearranges her fabric-bound breasts and—
flattened, warped—forgets them.
“A dutiful spouse,” she whispers, and her reflection agrees.
Penelope can finally breathe now.

Weft and warp felled, her loom stands naked, free
to weave a tapestry of heart, not expectations.
Years she’s waited. She’s wasted and wanted.
She’s re-borne those weights, re-weaved these lies.
Tomorrow, is Penelope the one strong enough to string
a new warp?

The binder our fair regent wears shapes their chest.
“I am a dutiful spouse,” they say, and smile.