Black Widow
Leslie Young

Widow Maker

Arteriosclerosis.

Inside the hourglass
fat, black, slick with fear, old omens,
and thick blood it fumes
atop his heart like a spider in waiting,
or dollop of scalding plastic.
My cries, tears, and schemes
mean nothing. Through the pillow of his chest
I hear a beat off, a new rippling.
In there as she pinches off remnants of shrieks,
threads of loosened fingers
from the static fabric of the dark.
She spins, channels clog. She squeezes her legs
like broken sticks, tightening.
Contiguous, consanguineous cousin, she mates to arteries,
Right, left, circumflex.

No insecticide.
I fear the powerhouse is failing,
is falling slowly, sloughing him,
changing to an instrument of earth only,
is a harp that seizes under my fingers,
that lies cold and frozen
to my breath and love.