#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.

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