1
The orb spider continues to spin a whole
Road map of a world on our large
Black living room window,
Each thread a highway to its charge.
The intricate lace of white lines stuck
Where a fly waits for his nip and his tuck.
It is so sturdy it will hardly ripple,
The house has to shake for it to shake even a little.
As the cars pass, it is solid as it is strobed.
Headlight after headlight, the same high beams
Run like upside down waves on the ceiling.
But the web holds the fly anxious for the final blow.
I watch as the spider comes close like a spy,
Unsure if I am jealous of the web or the fly.
2
Unsure if I am jealous of the web or the fly,
Both of them sure of their beginnings and ends.
I slip into bed and lie there beside
Your body like a buoy that the ocean resents.
If I could just grab hold and find a way to paddle,
If you could stop dragging your feet along the gravel.
As a child I remember knowing how to float
When sober was the wind and my body, the boat.
Now each step is anchored and you continue to drift
In the room where we pretend that we are alive,
Where you and I commit the sin, and you and I forgive.
This is not holy but I wish the winds would shift,
Let some higher being take back the power,
As we mistreat our bodies, minute by minute, hour by hour.
3
As we mistreat our bodies, minute by minute, hour by hour,
Day by day, the laundry piles up like driftwood and debris.
There is no coffee in the kitchen and the milk's gone sour.
I won't dust the living room so the spiders are free
To march in the corners and over piles of mail,
Like prisoners who've recently overthrown the jail.
Open a window, I can hear a voice in my head,
Get dressed. Get out. Wash the sheets on the bed.
It's not God, I tell you. It's my mother,
Though there is little difference between the two.
I'm convinced that together they're planning a coup.
She'll say I've got two problems, I'm one and you're the other.
She's right you know the tide is too high.
But we could drown in a glass of water, you and I.
4
But we could drown in a glass of water, you and I,
Lying in this knee-deep pool of self-pity
With no intention of getting out or getting dry.
You argue that there is a freedom, a simplicity
In dropping beneath the usual swing of things.
But I am the one who keeps listening
When you start to speak as the television fades
And you begin your wallowing on the downside of day.
We must have some belief in this small life,
I still throw salt over my shoulder; you play the lottery.
There are nights when we make an effort to agree
And drift into bed where our bodies collide.
What would happen if we answered a letter or the phone?
Are we scared to discover that in fact, we are not alone?
5
Are we scared to discover that in fact, we are not alone?
That the windows open out and the wind blows in, That there is something familiar in this unknown Need to protect our minds, our bodies, our skin, And each other. You make me floss every night, And worry now and then when I lose my appetite.
I want to lie down on your inconsistent shore, Make myself a sandcastle and draw myself a door.
Come on, come out, or simply let me be Alone and watch the waves pull their fingers back.
Instead, you hold me under until my body goes slack In this living room sand by this suburban sea.
I've got no compass, no lifeboat, no mast, sail or stern, Only the small prayer that, tomorrow, the tide will turn.
6
Only the small prayer that, tomorrow, the tide will turn And the net will come up full of feast has the hope To break the silence in this house and make us unlearn Our habits, our tracks or untie the knot in our rope.
Can a spider change his mind and cut the noose?
Can a fly lift her wings and pry herself loose?
Let's test the waters, drop the anchor, watch it sink Into the waves the way you drop yourself in drink.
I will not enforce a curfew or try to hide your vice, I may be blinded but I'm convinced we can stop, Slow down, get right or simply watch the boat rock.
I will be the empty vessel and my heart the ice.
Pour something in me, the time is wasting.
I am the one doing the spinning and you, the tasting.
7
I am the one doing the spinning and you, the tasting.
Your spinnerets spread your silk like a staysail-stay, From my vantage point I can see the land erasing Off the horizon and the night becoming day.
I'm not fighting anymore, tied to your mast I am watching the web and the shadows it casts.
If I had my choice, I'd have a boat of my own, The sails would be my skin, the bow my bones.
I'd paint a spider on the side and make it my omen, Like a remembrance, a tattoo, of the life I left behind.
You could stay in this room with loathing on your mind, I'd fly the flag and name her Unmanned Woman.
Still, I remain, trying to weave self-control Where the orb spider continues to spin a hole.
from interview in Southern Review of Books.
The third section, a crown of sonnets called “The Spider Web,” is the point where poetic formalism is most apparent. How do you view these strict forms and what role do they play in your poetry?
I really love form. And I really love this kind of sonnet. I think I thought after I wrote that I’d write many, many more crowns of sonnets. But it’s so dependent on subject. And I wanted to write about addiction. I started thinking of the form as container but in this case as trap, which made it perfect for talking about addiction. It felt like you always have to return to this thing. And so I thought this was the exploration that was particularly attuned to a sonnet crown.
This poem started with long lines and many different versions. It was always called “The Spider Web,” but I could not figure out what was going on with it. It was many pages, all these things, and then finally, and I think it was… “The orb spider continues to spin a whole / Road map of a world on our large living room window, / Each thread a highway to its charge. / The intricate lace of white lines stuck / Where a fly waits for his nip and his tuck” and I was just playing around.
And I got to “whole” and “window” and I saw those rhymes and I thought to try it as a sonnet. And the idea of the sonnet crown, of carrying the last line into the first line of the next sonnet, seemed to make it a kind of an engine.
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