The spider spins her web,
she twirls fantastic shapes out of wicked, winding threads.
I watch her,
by the hypnotic gyrations of her swollen spinnerets.
Her abdomen is shaking from the force of her silking;
she darts, and drops,
spinning from a slender spool of hand-spun silky web.
The milky web,
the filmy maze,
the dizzying haze of filaments
combining to create a labyrinth of sin.
Abuelita Araña sits in the middle of the labyrinth,
winding all the silk into a tight and lethal knot.
The fly's wings, little gauzy strips of emerald and pearl flutter uselessly,
one last desperate cry for life,
trapped, as he is in he midst of death.
Abuelita turns him,
over and over,
like an egg that's over easy,
like a roast chicken on a spit,
like a grain of sand inside an oyster shell,
turning the rough and hairy fly into something soft and palatable.
A delicate entrée wrapped in silk.
Encased in innocent and naïf white,
the fly becomes a tankard of wine-dark nectar for Abuelita,
She sucks the blood from the compact package,
a drop falls on the web,
and glistens in the twilight sky.
She looks so beautiful,
drunk on the death she has created.
I am fascinated,
captivated by her swollen abdomen
and calculating, shining eyes.
I shiver as the sun sets over the reservoir.
And she goes on,
always the same daily ritual:
sucking off each victim
as he falls into her dewey web.
And always spinning,
spinning shapes of silk
darning deadly patterns,
and weaving warning signs
of sticky, sickly beauty
into the dewey evening sky.