Wodwo Is Me

To Ted Hughes 

I’ve been bit
by a trans tarantula
the size of an ice moon.

He was garbed
in your strange square
of satin and
his eight eyes
were sharp as neutrinos
fizzing out golden
in the Hadron Collider.

He is a hard girl
to fall for.
His breasts only
cumuliform
in certain snows.

I knew him too
when he was her swan-self,
just grown wings
and crawled out of Leda.

Her puncture marks
are of mythological depth.
They rest inside me
like doubles of the hill
with the house from
your childhood sitting under.
His human face
rises to the window,
somewhat like yours
in your author photo.

Ah yes,
the sweep of his wings
with her words
his latest grand gesture:
“Above the iPad factories me boy.
Over the woods and under.
I coat the slums with webs
and layeth suns in eggs
while Michael Robbins
watches with pleasure.”