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ARE WE NOT DONE WEAVING SPIDERS . . .

Are we not done weaving spiders? Come let’s make a flag with this blood— That we could flatten it? Cried one language “That it should fly.” Fetch rice from your house Enough to make paste. And string, and hold

So the cloud would let go. Go ahead

Show us the spider who wants to let go. Mother has had enough of father cooking rice Only to smell, once more, the fragrance of leaf. And where is mother? Who makes meal An effort to see fire go to waste. A word

More intimate than kindling?

What do we do with so much red— Stop this. I said Now. Where did you get that? Around, or am I, again, a flaw? Who gave you— One, look how evenly I waxed the floor. Two, are you pointing out this body here Would rather suffer the wiping of petals

Than gather the garden herself? Come and get What’s coming to you—you think yourself clever?

You believe clever was done beating its heart?