The spider watches me as I pass.
Steady, typically, from the ceiling or a kitchen
corner. I know what he thinks
“The last time you put me out I had to swim
rivers, dodge those chipmunks you have
with their dirty tunnels under the garage and patio,
the ones that explode at any hint of bird sound
or doors banging. And what about the birds,
who never tire, searching for fat
bodies to steal up and swallow.
“And what about the brutal suns:
I know them only by squares drifting the floors
and walls, like soft ideas that always fade
when the lights come on.
Those suns fill the sky and crush my five eyes
like hot stones pressing me between the grass.
Let’s talk a little about the grass. It’s sharp
enough to cut off my arms and when it’s wet
I must squeeze to escape, crawl over and expose
my back, and then I must scale Everest
or Olympus Mons to get back home.
“You’ve never done any of this, who feeds
the squirrels as if it’s they who might starve
in the winter, you who pets the dog and gives
him or her (whatever) a name and weeps
when they lay still when called for the last time.
“You made this place. It’s big enough for several
of us. You know well enough I was born here,
in these warm rooms, perfect for webs.
You would toss me into an alien place,
like some dark earth supported by a stem,
with strange wasp-worn flowers, light I must strain
to bear on my little furry back. I’m not wild,
but making a living here, native, fearful
and feared, and so pardon me if I dash
for a hole in the wall, scramble behind the blinds,
leap out into atmosphere to escape
your magnanimity, your gentle hand.
Better swat me like a fly than toss me
into the yard where I must fight for life
like a man fallen from a plane to nowhere.
“Go on, don’t look. I’m just a shadow,
a ghost, a violet among violets. You
wont even know I’m here. Pass on.”
The spider watches me from above.
I know exactly what’s on his mind.
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