Location: Brooklyn, NY
A mirror is meaningless to the Amaurobius ferox
for her world within flows into the world without
like a fluid, and her existence
is the weakest eddy in time, a tiny whirlpool in the current.
She's always drowning with no past to recall
or lost future to regret,
the ultimate unexamined life,
but a life worth living.
She does what she does on her own woven silk,
calling forth her hungry spiderlings,
goading them by plucking silver strings,
playing her own dirge till her brood is roused
and a shroud of a hundred hides the devouring.
She who never really was, never dies--
But the spider is neither mother Mary nor Medea,
for mother nature casts her in the most primal play
compelling her to recite the script by rote,
in the barest outline of the scene.
A passionate reading is reserved
for the more difficult plays,
performed by hot-blooded actresses gazing into mirrors
and applying the appropriate make-up
for the maternal roles they choose to play.