Tuesday, May 8, 2007


Jan M. W. Rose

Afraid for both of them,
her movements, uncertain,
she lightfoots it between

twelve intersections of thread
and an odd collector's item:
a strange dark bug she keeps

knotted in a silk pouch
tight as a cherry pit.
Gnats hover in the moist air

langorous with conversation.
"She's strange" they murmur,
riding tiny currents of air.

About her are slung
a dozen males,
bulging in their white hammocks,

shimmering in porch light.
Even as she wanders,
legs tapping the wires

like piano strings,
they bob up and down,
suspended hard in sleep.

But her long worn Utility
chooses none; the captive males
curl tighter in their nets;

and dropping her blue-white line,
for a moment—she fidgets—
then turns into shadow.

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