An elegant weapon, she’s glossy,
ballistic. Her legs, articulated.
But it’s the shine I notice. Light glints
off carapace though she’s tangled in
a sticky mess, a catchall of dead
leaves and insects I take for cobweb
near a potted shrub. The hydrangea
that has bloomed and faded though the days
still blaze and rattlesnaking of cicadas
rises from the oaks. Her abdomen’s
a precise sphere somewhere between pea
and marble. Her size belies her power—
from her underside the crimson sign
flashes—time’s running out. Her bite might
make you dizzy or shake, slow your heart
or make it race. Death is unlikely.
Still, she’s reviled as murderess.
The more complicated truth: she seeks
seclusion, she won’t always devour
her mate (the rarely seen, the often
smaller). For breakfast, she swallows fire
ants. She envenoms prey, enfolds them
in a breathtaking embrace, waits, patient,
while toxin takes its hold. She spins
four kinds of silk, uses one to weave
a purse: her clutch of eggs. Of her hundreds
of babies, a dozen or fewer
will survive her.
Imagining her quick ascent
I won’t deny the shiver.
How those thin legs would feel prickling
my skin. I could crush her, easy,
a satisfying pop under my sole,
smear the sidewalk with what passes for
blood. But I don’t kill her, I can’t kill her.
Lisa Zerkle’s poems have appeared in The Collagist, Nimrod, storySouth, among others. She was the creator and curator of 4X4CLT, a public art and poetry series for Charlotte Lit. In January 2023, she was awarded an MFA in Poetry from Warren Wilson College. She lives with her husband and a 100 pound slobbery bulldog named Ozzie. Follow her on Instagram @hag_lore.
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Heavy Feather Review 
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