Menstruation At Forty (Spider's Curse)

Stung to death,  
an ill begotten fate,  
sisters in tangled limb,  
sisters in wombs' blood  
rendered of yesterdays  
remains still hunted.  

Weaving angels  
hover over the early death  
trapped, entangled,  
consumed in poison,  
wrists bound together  
praying for new life.  
 
Son, beseeching  
all I have acquired of you,  
You, whom the dusky late hours have made,  
You, whom I lusted for and listened for  
rattling as bells toll,  
clocks revealing our closeness in hour,  
our embrace before  
the splitting apart of our loves' codependency.  
 
I rock you inside the empty lull,  
my quiet one,  
unrecieved of longing,  
bare of hearts' tethering,  
a last siphoning from which  
sisters in kind fall away.  
 
'Woman,  
weaving a web over your own,  
a thin and tangled poison.  
Scorpio,  
bad spider—  
die!'  
 
        .....  
 
#AnneSexton