Come Into My Parlor
 
                     by Arlene Ang

You don't see the web she arts,
every thread an iridescent brushstroke
sun-basking the landscape. The right
shimmer transforms the arid meadow
to lush hillside, the sickle-crawled sky
masquerades in gown of blue.
Grass fractures the stone path
intricately, hard-stemmed as needles
and cuts through the thickest gum sole.

But she cannot repaint the clematis
in the gazebo, its dry vines clutch
the corner posts like fingers in tortured
rigor mortis. If you listen, you can hear
chelicerae snap, open-close-open-close.
She awaits you in the cottage, warmed
by firebones, her spinnerets busy
fashioning a silken plate in your honor.