Two Poems by Lacy Snapp

I Surrender My Garden to Her

That artistic, giant yellow and black garden spider

is a dangerous woman. 

When male spiders court her 

plucking the edges of her web,

they always have a contingency plan

an escape route

in case she is not flattered

by their careful 


and instead seeks 

to kill him

and eat him. 

Care must be taken by people, too. 

One should speak no name 

around her web, 

because if she spells it out 

with her zigzag weavings,

they say, 

that person 

will die soon. 

Superstitious of disturbing her web, 

I have surrendered the far right corner of my garden

to her.

At night, after watering,

I press myself flat 

against the house 

to pass

as she restrings to snare her evening supper.

I keep my distance, 

some cherry tomatoes drop from vine 

to the soil

in the corner I cannot reach, 

now hers alone.  

I think I understand—

though she will die with the first frost

of fall, 

after a full summer of webbing

at dusk, 

consuming those centers

only to rebuild 

each morning 

with fresh silk, 

she holds on for as long

as she can. 

She has an egg sack to protect. 

Silken souls

in the thousands 

tiny as dust

wrapped up tight 

until their spring exodus,

soon to be

writers of creation themselves. 


Divined Good
after Medbh McGuckian
from “To the Nightingale” 

to the moon that nearly rotted
I still tried to eat you whole
as I would a peach 
(I dare) 
and the juices that dribbled down 
my shirt, dripping 
off beige buttons,
burnt my skin
to the touch. 

who knew that rotting moon juice
would sear so surely? 
who knew that it had any power
at all? 

I suspected peaches have power. 
At my grandmother’s house
in Knoxville, 
they lure animals to climb trees. 

Squirrels, birds, 
rats grind the fruit 
in their small mouths, 
rabbits gobble up 
orbs down from the dwarf trees, 
raccoons scale trunks 
and use sharp teeth to quicken
their hungry stomachs. 

Even the silent deer
can stretch their necks 
to reach the lowest
branches, (do they dare?)
they tease off 
the low-hanging moons
with the gentlest ease. 

The oldest spirit standing 
in this open field
is my oldest gift—
my grandmother’s 
planted this tree 
for me. 

How could she know I’d wait too long 
to harvest the fruit
so that it bruised 
and softened, 
so that the communing deer and I 
have to eat around 
the bad parts,  
but the good
that ancestral, divined good
is worth the tedious ceremony, 
is worth the wealth of moon juice
that burns our spread lips
at its touch. 

Lacy Snapp
is a poet and woodworker in East Tennessee. Her first chapbook, Shadows on Wood, was published in 2021 by Finishing Line Press. She teaches American Literature and Composition at East Tennessee State University, runs her business, Luna’s Woodcraft, and serves on the board of the Johnson City Poets Collective and as the 2022 Chair of Programs for the Poetry Society of Tennessee. She is currently an MFA candidate at Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her poetry appears in Women of Appalachia Project’s Women Speak: Volume 6 and Volume 7, Mildred Haun Review, Snapdragon: A Journal of Art and Healing, among others, and is forthcoming in Women Speak: Volume 8.