Dandelions

A web full of baby spiders, each the size of a tear
drop, vibrating in place until blown on and then

falling down toward the end of threads
spun from their own tiny bodies, each crossing

over that of its siblings’. Yellow sac, brown
recluse, golden, it’s almost impossible

to identify what they will become—
poison or not. Hunters or gatherers.

A female wolf spider carries her eggs
in a silk sac on her back until the spiderlings

hatch, disperse, ballooning, kiting, releasing
their own gossamer lines to catch

the wind, traveling, sometimes, kilometers. Halfway
between New York and Napoli, ships report

spider landings. Mortality, not surprisingly, is high.
I am waiting to hear from my friend’s husband

if his wife made it alive through the night.
Meanwhile, the sun strokes the threads of the web

as if love and this, the start
of a long journey. I blow

softly on the web, watch the tiny things
tumble, watch them fly.

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Sarah Wetzel is the author of the poetry collection, The Davids Inside David, recently released from Terrapin Books. She is also the author of River Electric with Light, published by Red Hen Press, and Bathsheba Transatlantic, published by Anhinga Press. When not shuttling between her two geographic loves—Rome, Italy and New York City—she is Publisher/Editor at Saturnalia Books and a PhD student in Comparative Literature at CUNY Graduate Center in New York City. See sarahwetzel.com.