She had a parched heart, Araneus Illaudatus.

She had a name
              in her own tongue, wasn’t
a Roman Senator, wasn’t
              orb-weaver
    
              with a rocking-chair and corn-cob pipe―

What
              could true her name, she was 

              wholly alien―

A fanged knob, body 
              big as my thumb―

              to the first joint.

                            ―

Poised for hours in her spun palace her
              deeply unreadable mind―

She drained the night-moths.

She’d disappear for a day or two,
              turn up bigger than before―

Blood-pumped
              until she split her seams, pulsed out
from her old skin, 
              flexing like a fist―

Illaudatus: 
              unpraised.

                            ―

Did I not wed her, did I not worship―

Hand-fast 
              to her twilight appearance 

every evening in summer―
              When she dropped to head-level I crawled

              into the lit house―

Sat up
              just inside the door, adrenalined, 

                            ―

              afraid―

Autumn came and the web sagged.

Winter came with its pit mouth
              and I stayed inside.

Now it’s spring and her egg’s hatched
              in the crook of the deck-chair―babies

              getting ready to balloon―

Soon they’ll hook the wind and 
              web up
in someone’s eaves, thimbles
              of blood and bite

                            ―
    

              at the center of the weave―

They’d fanned out over the canvas seat, they had
              a penchant for spinning.

A drive for blood and a drive to be, which is
              everyone’s condition…

I took a thin box and made one side a shuttle. 
              Started to airlift 

              the orange tribe― 

but made an orange smear. And so I smeared them all,
              her children.