Arachnid

Oh Mother, Mother,
Do I lock the gates? And do
I ring the tocsin?
For the plague is coming
To the town of me and you.

The men at the pub
And the seamen in port,
The tattered children
And the diamond-foot wives
All know:

They sense it in
Their hollow bones —
The rumbling traveling
Through ground.
They know, they know.

The drunks, the professors,
The sailors, the golfers
Have each wrestled out
A plank from their floors
And brought to you:

And silk padding, and
Nails. And a hammer too.
They, trembling, lay you
Out on the plaza before
It has even arrived.

Their facile faces flush
With pious horror,
As they’re quick to
Dress you up in lace,
Perfume your cheeks

And bewreath you
With carnations, like
They crown a candle
With an uncracked glass —
All anticipatory.

It strides upon its
Endless legs
It’d bouqueted out of
Forest fire shrubs —
Stand back, it comes, it comes.

It’s blind like the sky
And naked like a cloud;
The smell intrudes
The gates and pauses
All routine,

And all air circulation
Is cut off and out.
The nimbus settles and I
Cry — with a little girl’s mouth
At your feet.

And so it takes you.
For not a soul defied,
But stood — a furniture,
A soulless soul-
shaped column.

Sucks the life
Out of your lips,
Injects a sour poison,
While I’m left to pick
Fallen lace trimmings.

Mother, I can’t believe
Every one cowered;
To set you out, as
One, as a unanimous
Sacrifice. I slowly

Bend and waltz away
Into a darkness, Bliss-less,
Water-thin like death,
To wake up in my bed
Alone.