The Spider
A bitter love poem
There it is,
the furry, black leg.
This is the way it happens.
Him, with his bright eyes,
high-pitched ebullience
pouring from his face.
Me, nodding,
feigning interest.
Then — a flicker.
What moved?
The long spindle, dark and hairy.
A spider’s leg
protrudes from the hole on the side of his head.
One leg,
then two —
now a retreat, receding
into the darkness of him.
That’s where it lives, the spider.
In the place oft referred to as “ear”
though I know not
whether ours can hear.
What are words when a spider might emerge?
Any second.
Any second now.
Watching. Waiting.
Come out. Please?
All of you. I want to see.
Is it possible that he doesn’t feel it?
He must, I am sure now.
Eventually, I will see you, Spider.
I will see you.
“What are you staring at?”
“Nothing,” I lie.
We lie.
I know where the Spider lives.
He knows, too.
But we cheat truth.
Pretending.
Eyes fixed upon his ear.
But under the table,
my shoe in hand.
Ready.
