BECAUSE MY DAUGHTERS ARE GROWING,
grief has stained and doubled my limbs.
Each daughter I enfold in arms
sees my blurred eyes as multi-faceted.
Oh, spider-mother, they tease.
Oh, spider-mother, they sing
all their days over their sweeping,
their small games with shells.
And I lament more as their legs
grow tall and thick, their hips
spread like a terrible web
in which a small life will stick,
struggle like an angry fly.
Art credit David Ostrowski.