tended webs

on how the world's stage is a web

I’m processing some things.

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tended webs

spindly legs prick taut membranes,

—pop—

what lies beneath? conspiracy’s a void,

(maybe true, or not), when curtains fall,

who pulled their cords? whether human, beast, or devil,

or god, or

saintly priest and king

i’ve been the unwitting stagehand, set designer,

Prima Donna, groundling drooling rivulets

as porcine hearts beneath unspotted tunics

beat their last—

do we stop the show or break a leg?

daddy long-legs and black widows tend the webs

that span between

throbbing eggs, unseen.

spectacle belies the anguish,

the torture

that tore her,

and her, and him

to serve a shadow’s whim.