We have identified our web
among rhododendron twigs,
its mistress absent. We coat
black construction paper
with hairspray and ease it in
from behind. It sticks, comes away
with only a single strand
of damage, capturing a battlestar.
This is more than third grade
science. More even than turning
terror into art. The phantom wisp,
the eight magnified limbs
become, if not garden angel,
at least its crone, defending the rose
from aphids, slender stems
from beetle and fly. No pesticides
here. No gene manipulation.
Just spokes from the seed of a small
brown sac patterning purposeful
beauty. The white-on-black
design graces our refrigerator
throughout the winter. While
the spider, bundled under a snowy
leaf, dreams a distant hunger.
–
Joanne Clarkson’s fifth poetry collection, The Fates, won the Bright Hill Press annual contest and was published in 2017. Her poems have appeared in such journals as Alaska Quarterly Review, American Journal of Nursing, and Poetry Northwest. Registered nurse by profession, she worked in hospice and home health.