#5: The Spider
Maybe they were dreams you forgot
Slipped from memory
Fell between the dowels
Of your bedstead
Landed like little black eggs
In the corner where you
Admired the tidy pile
Then the steady hatch
Multiples of eight
Needle- thin legs
Balletic in their precision
The beauty of black
Lines definite and cold.
If so, you called me forth. Fed me
So I’m yours. Darling.
Don’t run
Now that I’m grown
Larger than you dared
Imagine. I’ve come to claim you.
Stitch my desire to your skin
Your towering legs
Endless arms.
— Weave, spin, create
We could play it that way.
Or else admit your pain.
Your fear. The delight we share.