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.
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.