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.
weaving a web over your own,
a thin and tangled poison.
bad spider—

Author's Note
Written for the 'More Than Myself' Comp
Quote in italics is from the original poem:
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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