When a spider is scared,
Too scared to run,
To bite,
It draws together.

Knees press inward,
Meeting at a point,
They cover their vulnerability
In an impenetrable wall
Of legs and cuticle.

Tonight, when I close my eyes-
When all I want is the silent,
Empty screen of sleep-
I see the octopedal child
Curled,
Frightened.

I think; "this is me."

It sits,
As it spins
In the veil of night
It thrives,
As it survives
On the liquefied viscera
Of its prey.

Its many eyes
watch
As its many joints
Crack
Its many arms and legs
Bend and move
As it crawls
And climbs
Silently

It speaks,
Inaudible words
Slide past its teeth
And the venom drips
As it breathes
With piecing fangs.

I dare not say its name.

A life spent spinning.
That is the common trait
shared by spiders,
And me.

I’m sure every spider would say,
If only we would listen,
“there is no greater achievement,
Than a well spun web.”

The first giddy rush
As you hang on a fragile thread
That may
Or may not hold
To the scrutiny of nature.

You create  a delicate structure
Of twisted phrases
Hung with dewy embellishments
To distract and awe your audience.

But over time it falls apart
Foundations break
And loose ends show
To disrupt the believable symmetry.

And then you must patiently wait
Until a clumsy foot or hand or arm
Sweeps through and tears it down
Freeing you from the façade.

Just make sure dear spider
That when your web,
Is broken and blamed.
You were not sitting in its centre
Letting it crash down upon you.

Give her chance. Meet her for coffee. You'll never know if you like the way her shampoo smells, or the way her nose crooks slightly to the left unless you put down $2.25 for a cup of burnt mouth and laughter so loud that the entire cafe wonders what kind of nerve you two have.  

You'll never know if you prefer her hands draped over your arms, or mine wrapped around your cheeks. While discussing spider legs and thigh gaps, the dead, the dying and the decay of classic rock, you might find that you like the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, but hate the way she inhales through her mouth and sighs with the flits of her eyelashes.

Maybe she's the Wednesday obituary. Maybe she's the Sunday paper with all the colored funnies your inner ten year old desires.

Maybe she's your glass of wine. Maybe she's your shot of whiskey. Or maybe she'll flow through your body like ice water. You've never been one for alcohol anyway.

Give her a chance. Meet her for coffee. Watch how her *** moves in her jeans. See the gleam of her little chiclet teeth when she smiles.

But don't think about me. Don't remember the way my hips curve. Don't think bow of my lips or the Cupid's arrow that once punched you so hard in the mouth that you smiled for an entire year of your life. Don't put that white paper cup to your lips and pretend that your tasting the way words dance around my tongue.

Go out and love someone. Love them for their mountains and valleys. Love them through their stormy nights and sunny mornings. Love them like you run. Full force, breathless, exhausted to the point of happiness. Chase after them until your lungs and legs give out. Just don't give up, and don't give in. And don't forget that I loved you first, but you loved me most. No matter where your feet or heart take you, that will never change.

This Sunday
During the music
I saw a spider.

It crawled down the center aisle.

I thought to myself:
God made this spider
And it is going to give
Its soul
To Him
At the altar—

A silly thought.

This spider knows the LORD.
It was never separated from Him
As I have been.

We planned our attack,
Chose our weapons carefully,
and strategized.

We would draw the enemy out
And corner him.
If he advanced,
We would immediately become
More aggressive.

ATTACK!

He began a retreat,
But we were ruthless.

Blood curdling war cries--
Animals in distress--

Die! Die! Die!

That spider didn't stand a chance.