arachne to her love

by Rose Kelleher

low-hanging star pulsing in midair
between two trees, fished-up star that clings
forlornly to my net, suspended there,
your limbs spread out like moth or angel wings,

you set my silk to shivering like the strings
of interwoven harps, your every move
sending tremors down concentric rings
into the heart of me―my self, my love,

my tireless legs, your ticklish skin, this grove
of beeches where you writhe and toss your head,
begging for mercy even as you prove
receptive to the pleasures of my bed―

our borders blur, like those that separate
a spider’s hunger from her need to mate.

Read Lilt, co-edited by Rose Kelleher, at