Writing Spider

(Argiope Aurantia)

Each night when you eat your words

do they go down like silk soup

or do you choke on the jagged stabilimenta

beaded with meaty bits still kicking life in your throat?

Each morning you spin again luminous thread

form alphabets whose interpretation informs the moment

before wind, predator, a careless brush of hand

unravels stitch by stitch your creation.

In between you wait.

Your body a black night sky

startled by sudden solar flare.

Pointed legs poised and planet steady,

you hold yourself midair.

You await

muse of moments to fly into your enticement,

wings caught in your sticky siren net,

wasp sword whitened to shining stalactite,

a drink of blood that beat in flight

and flesh that knew staccato movement.

While you wait, lightning bolt letters tell the wasp’s story:

Once I buzzed through air

until entranced by her yellow haired belly,

her pointed fingers plucking at a glorious harp.

Ecstatic, losing myself completely,

enchanted to become her,

I fell into her maw,

and we melted the universe.