Queen of Endings

1.

When I was young I saw a spider so huge
she seemed the mother of all spiders.

What fine fabrics she wove
in the air.  I loved to pluck the strings,
summoning her from the depths of her corners.
I thrilled at the nearness of my naked skin
to her teeth.

She was the queen of endings.
When I bowed close to her, my heart was all I needed,
and I drew my breaths in eagerness, tasting each, aware
I might take no others.

Later I searched the dark
under broad leaves,
the shadow of the old log,
the secluded dungeon of the well,
longing for the brilliance of the bloody hourglass
on her engorged belly
and the sleek lines of her long, black legs.

I dream of her children still,
thousands hanging in the sky from silk
as they drift
to arms, necks, faces
like seeds of dandelions.

2.

Sometimes I bend toward
the small brown spider,
squating torpid in the corner of ragged threads
across the corner of my porch.

I could  brush away the webs,
but I leave them
for the sake of the one I once sought.

I have lost my desire for endings.
As I stoop, I keep hands away,
safe at my sides, and watch
as she waits for flies,
which buzz at my screen,
drawn by life's detritus, the oders
of my body.