How the spiders fight

Cousin, show me again how the spiders fight.
Go into the red berry bush and find the black spider.
Have it fight the black spider from our basement.
Not the fat one with the abdomen like a thumb,
The smaller one, the wiry one with the web behind the radiator.
I want it to be fair.
I want to see them on the small twig propped between
your two index fingers. One spider on each side, two points on a line,
like the pupils of my father's eyes
focused on the sculpted marble print
of the newspaper crossword laid atop the kitchen table.
He checks the oven and the rice pot, each with satisfaction.
I step out of the house in the midst of this, quiet and careful not to
stumble over any strange objects:
My brother's toys, the creaking step, the smell of steak,
the solitude of one man at dinner.
My hand rests obvious as a bruise
On the brass face of the doorknob
Before my father's eyes
Which he promptly drops to his crossword,
a spider that has lost in battle,
bundled in fine silk, and now spinning
from the end of a thread,
dying from a bite to the head.