White Death Spider


Day 2

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.


Day 3

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.






Jane Wilkinson