Arachnidæa: Line Drawings
By Stephen C. Pollock
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Winner of the Lazuli Literary Group Summer 2025 Writing Contest
Arachnidæa: Line Drawings
I.
Extravagance at dawn --
your finest threads are strung with pearls
and you, a brooch with a clasp.
Magnify the shiny spheres
to divine that each conceals
a miniature, an image
of struggling wings, of life undone.
Pass at the critical angle,
and they flash and snap in the sun.
II.
These haunts are hung haphazardly
with votive offerings, each sucked dry;
paper maché sarcophagi,
cruel chrysalis for moth or butterfly.
III.
Serial killer.
Insecticide, the skill
in which you specialize.
Can we call it murder if nerves connect
not to brain but to canister, chain and gear,
if the dumb drive to survive directs
your every move? Or is it fear
that fuels your addiction to others’ pain,
a numbness spreading through the vein
as you rehearse, again, this ritual play --
bind and consume in your quick, kinetic way.
IV.
A stickler for particulars,
you’re helpless to repel
the pull of perpendicular
the lure of parallel.
Do lines and circles insulate?
Can order keep at bay
the random drafts that propagate
contagion, death, decay?
The cords are taut. You draw control
from patterns meant to thwart
unraveling, but the tension takes its toll
on the mental weft and warp.
V.
A concert in the round!
Divertimenti scored for eight short hands
will be played by the maestro
for adoring fans.
The fine fretwork glistens.
The strings tune and go still.
Once in motion,
you dazzle in the parts for pizzicato,
leap with ease over fourths and fifths,
scuttle up scales to a dizzying height
then plummet, by octaves, to the sublime.
All are amused, for a time.
The circle is crossed by chords,
point to counterpoint,
illusions of balance, of words.
Listen to the last mournful strains
murmuring a requiem for the days.
VI.
The hours molt and fall away;
the year grows late.
Your web’s worn watch face ticks in whispers
and you pray that you will hibernate but briefly
and somehow wake.
As if by grace, the breaths of winter
fog the panes,
leave no trace
of love
or joy
or even hate.
There are, in the end,
only the frayed strands of time,
the failing light
and you, splayed at the center,
condemned to wait.
I.
Extravagance at dawn --
your finest threads are strung with pearls
and you, a brooch with a clasp.
Magnify the shiny spheres
to divine that each conceals
a miniature, an image
of struggling wings, of life undone.
Pass at the critical angle,
and they flash and snap in the sun.
II.
These haunts are hung haphazardly
with votive offerings, each sucked dry;
paper maché sarcophagi,
cruel chrysalis for moth or butterfly.
III.
Serial killer.
Insecticide, the skill
in which you specialize.
Can we call it murder if nerves connect
not to brain but to canister, chain and gear,
if the dumb drive to survive directs
your every move? Or is it fear
that fuels your addiction to others’ pain,
a numbness spreading through the vein
as you rehearse, again, this ritual play --
bind and consume in your quick, kinetic way.
IV.
A stickler for particulars,
you’re helpless to repel
the pull of perpendicular
the lure of parallel.
Do lines and circles insulate?
Can order keep at bay
the random drafts that propagate
contagion, death, decay?
The cords are taut. You draw control
from patterns meant to thwart
unraveling, but the tension takes its toll
on the mental weft and warp.
V.
A concert in the round!
Divertimenti scored for eight short hands
will be played by the maestro
for adoring fans.
The fine fretwork glistens.
The strings tune and go still.
Once in motion,
you dazzle in the parts for pizzicato,
leap with ease over fourths and fifths,
scuttle up scales to a dizzying height
then plummet, by octaves, to the sublime.
All are amused, for a time.
The circle is crossed by chords,
point to counterpoint,
illusions of balance, of words.
Listen to the last mournful strains
murmuring a requiem for the days.
VI.
The hours molt and fall away;
the year grows late.
Your web’s worn watch face ticks in whispers
and you pray that you will hibernate but briefly
and somehow wake.
As if by grace, the breaths of winter
fog the panes,
leave no trace
of love
or joy
or even hate.
There are, in the end,
only the frayed strands of time,
the failing light
and you, splayed at the center,
condemned to wait.
TIME
Forever is composed of Nows — Emily Dickinson
Nows float by in single file
As if what passed was me
As if my memory toured this trail
Of continuity
Alas, the Future stores its forms
Behind opacity
Its ill-conceived conceit unborn
In perpetuity
And in between, this interface --
A slender entity
The Now of zero time displaced --
1 o’er infinity
Yet still, this absent span of time
Proceeds relentlessly
Unspools events to underline
The edge of history
No matter how the years unwind
Or wax in quantity,
Nows will issue from the mind
As will eternity…
Forever is composed of Nows — Emily Dickinson
Nows float by in single file
As if what passed was me
As if my memory toured this trail
Of continuity
Alas, the Future stores its forms
Behind opacity
Its ill-conceived conceit unborn
In perpetuity
And in between, this interface --
A slender entity
The Now of zero time displaced --
1 o’er infinity
Yet still, this absent span of time
Proceeds relentlessly
Unspools events to underline
The edge of history
No matter how the years unwind
Or wax in quantity,
Nows will issue from the mind
As will eternity…
Stephen C. Pollock is a poet and a retired associate professor at Duke University. His poems have appeared in a wide variety of literary journals, including Blue Unicorn, The Road Not Taken, and Live Canon Anthology. His debut poetry collection Exits has been honored with twenty-four literary awards, including the 2024 North Street Book Prize. For additional information, please visit https://exitspoetry.net/
