Palm Sunday

Our yard this morning is full of wings                

that close and spread to map

their lungs’ pulse

as they drink,

veiny stained glass, red

as a hand held up

to the sun.

Unstaked,

tomatoes go to vine.

Cabbage whites suck nectar

from their blossoms—lotuses

adrift on the chaos of

morning glory vines spiraling

hosta spires.

The cat stalks a monarch

feeding on zinnia.

She folds its wings

between her paws; this

is how we pray here, love—

with claws.

Orbweaver

My mother’s arachnophobia releases me.

Now an eight-legged star

hangs from dragline anchored

to corners of my living room window;

I leave the light on at night as bait.

Bumblebee tangles with net, veined

wings mounted on steel thread.

All its weight and force thrashes against

the glue of trap.  Quick work of sharp legs

wraps shroud   cocoon    body bag;

her body pulses as she feeds

honey   breastmilk   blood.

I don’t throw the switch

or draw the shade.

I used to sneer as

my first lover

pulled off

each mosquito leg

then dropped the rest

into the web.