What I hated about mezze was a spider
that spread his picnic-blanket net, sat
like a roman in the centre as dishes
flung themselves around his plate.
That spider never doubted,
not like an artist twiddling her tired hands
before the private view, or a writer
pressing warm lips to her first manuscript.
That spider needed no one,
except for an occasional one-off
fuck in the shade of a dock
when the whim took him.
Then, when I got to the pregnancy stage
where my belly button suddenly popped
like a sail on my already swollen tummy
I saw the spider again, skitterish this time
and kicked at him. It stopped and I stopped
still. Not a he after all, but a she, hauling
a pramful of round white eggs under her,
hurrying to her web, where she had wrapped
all the dishes diligently for later.
