This poem is for Neutria.
Silk from her spinnerets
drawn with deadly grace and placed
just so,
one
strand
upon
another.
Opera drama in a poison web,
a grasshopper MacBeth,
twitching in throws of woe, a twitch too many
and he’s free,
her web torn,
ripped,
useless.
Need draws her to spin again, and
hunger forces her to wait
for the brainless fly
or
bumbling bee.
Knife-fangs ready,
venom sacs swollen,
stomach empty, always
empty as she waits weary hours nine times nine.
Amusement plays no part in her deadly dance.
Chase survival, she must, and dodge ignorant hands as they
swat and slap in baseless fear.
Idolize no one, for she is her own idol, her own comfort, her own hunter, her own savior.
Feast, soon, she hopes, and spin again tomorrow
and tomorrow
and tomorrow.
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