She wards the doorjamb.
I, the knob. Stuck in a
sitzkrieg, rotten with
dust & peppermint oil.
The spider clings to its mark,
persistent & intractable,
this black baby
that rebuilds its web
each time the north wind wails
or I open the screen door.
The bitsy arachnid refusing
to concede & allow any force to
relocate her home, no matter
how many times it tries.
The wind, the door,
the spider, & I now locked
into the perpetual dance
of obstinacies, destruction,
& repair.
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