White Death Spider
White spider in her pink rose lair, is she
the same one I saw there years before?
Yesterday she killed a bumble-bee,
an all-black female Anthophora plumipes.
Face to face, its face already gone, became one,
single, black and white, monstrous thing.
And today I cut a rose for me. She came out
to just be sure on one of her few threads
thrown like thoughts, reaching up a long,
bone-finger, ivory tooth-pick, hyper-
dermic to taste my air. Face to face, now
I see the manicure of dipped, black, ink.
Her huge firm bulb-behind pin-cushioned
with a face from space, the alien mask as
chilly as the moon, a landscape of pale, pale
eau de nil and shadow. Fearless, as I peer,
she clasps a petal edge between her needle
heels, arms outstretched, bravura balance,
she looks at me ‘whadaya think of that’,
I think a lot – she wants to suck out my brain.