Silking the Spider
Isobel Dixon


Who stole the Parisian turn-of-the-century spider-silk tapestry?
Did it even exist? you ask. O ye of little faith in nature's art,
man's ingenuity. It was an old French missionary,
arachnid-struck, who started it, but failed.
Now, since the rainy season's come, Antananarivo's
humming wires are draped with spider finery.
Only the female silks like this.

The spider collectors rise at four. They are chosen
for their gentle hands: the harvesting of spiders
is a task made for the delicate of touch.
A very careful person pulls the dragline, spindles it—
stronger than steel and cashmere soft.
What a fine career! Do the spider-catchers dream
at night of the traces of the little harnessing machines

or of leagues of liquid spiralling inside
a pitch-and-primrose abdomen, slow fluid
zig-zagging to tensile radiance, rare Madagascar gold.
The threads ping like guitar strings—
even Uncle Oswald, that old rogue, would be amazed.
I see him waltzing with Louise Bourgeois, her impish grin.
His bright cravat mimics the moon, a crumpled golden orb.