Thinking about what happens to safety nets when they’re not needed any longer got this poem started after a month-long dry spell in which I wrote nothing at all, not even a keeper line or phrase.
The dragonfly is Micrathyria dictynna, which, like many other dragonfly species, lacks a common name.
Witness Britomartis: Driven into the sea by a lustful king
She rose, entangled by rescuing fishermen, as many-named
Dictynna and took their nets as her gown, goddess liminally clothed
Bending to watch a spider spin a web of her own essence,
Ethereal as a medium’s ectoplasmic evidence yet
Strong enough to snare her dinner, a dragonfly
That bears Dictynna’s name and no other as it
Blunders into the web on wings of vermeiled lace,
While back in Greece, bronze is the choice of Hephaestus for his net,
Too fine to be seen by divine eyes, yet still able to catch and bind
Aphrodite and Ares joined in their assignation, while above them, in a
Mesh of stars in the shape of a bull, Venus and Mars too are held, conjunct.
In safety we transform our nets, and with them, ourselves.