Garden Spider She spins her own soft maze, snare haloed like an old radio microphone ON THE AIR, rippling thin aural rings, oval waves of sonic silk. At the transit heart, catching fine veins of light, she waits for the pluck of a male, tiny harpist, blindly orphic, so tender on a woven strand of her high-strung web that will pulse under his touch like a radiant and terrible lyre. Note: The diminutive suitor, even if successful in courtship, often becomes dinner to his cannibalistic mate.
About the Author: Dan MacIsaac writes from Vancouver Island. Brick Books published his collection, Cries from the Ark. His poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including, most recently, in America, Valley Voices, Manzano Mountain Review and Poetica’s Rosenberg Award Collection.
Image Credit: Jan Vincentsz van der Vinne “A Spider” (late 17th–early 18th century) Public domain image courtesy of Artvee
As It Ought To Be 