The Spider in the Barberry


she descends the staircase.

Gliding down the staggered span

in the glory of her dusky skin,

eight stiletto feet traverse

laddered elisions of architecture

not Cubist or Modernist,

but of ancient craft –

the silken scaffold of her appetite

pinned to the thorns and smoking

in the morning light.


Her shadow fractures on

red leaves, lethal arcs and angles

of the final dark geometry.

The staircase is an abattoir,

the lady sleek with murder

yet elegant in form and grace

as her swaying, lustrous home –

the cool byzantine trap that

ascends forever outward on the wind.