marbled orb weaver

She has a scar on her tongue; spiraled like a spiderweb
from when the parachute containing the rock salt opened

When I was young, the age when boys build ramps
in the backs of the woods; that towns abandon
behind cemeteries, to ride their bmx's on; where
first cigarettes are smoked, fires lit, squirrels shot
with bb guns; I found a battery nailed to a tree

Its membrane had bled acid rain all the way down
until it seeped beneath the bark to where the will
of poison ivy resides. There is a subtle scent tied
to the memory of that crucified nine volt, lingering
around the blown motors of the machine gods, and
her sweat smells like it

She's inspired enough to catch her face on fire,
collect the ashes, and place them on a dime sized
porcelain plate inside the mud mask that she made

She's smart enough to escape, but her intellect
lands her bravery on the barbs of the fence

She won't go back and stays near, backing away
a few steps in a different direction each time; her
footprints leaving a trail in the asphalt that spell-
out the names of collided stars

There is a silk to her also that will sew repair
onto the floor of her mouth
until she lands head first
back against the directory that her legs log in dry ice