if you compose a poem on the spot
to match his wit. Remaking the stories
you’ve learned before won’t suffice this time.
No remembering: you must invent.
And don’t mention Mnemosyne’s daughters—
everyone knows they’re not real gods.
The idea that he couldn’t call on the Muses
diminished the bard’s imagination.
A rare silence rang the throne room.
Daedalus might beat the bard this time,
but he wouldn’t stutter. The words that used
to come to him half unconsciously
withheld themselves. In the silence he heard
language and knew it was not his lyre.