The Spider

The Spider

The Spider

When I appear to you
by dark, descended
not from heaven, but the lowest
branch of the walnut tree
bearing no annunciation,
suspended like a slub
in the air’s weave –
and you shriek, you shriek
so prettily, I’m reminded
of the birds – don’t birds also
cultivate elaborate beauty, devour
what catches their eye?
Hence my night shift,
my sulphur and black striped
jacket – poison – a lie
to cloak me while, exposed,
I squeeze from my own gut
the one material.
                    Who tore the night?
Who caused this rupture?
You, staring in horror
– had you never considered
how the world sustains?
– the ants by day
clearing, clearing,
the spiders mending endlessly.