Noiselessly, I meander
industry my motivation
slipping through cracks
undaunted by darkness.
I skitter and hop,
avoiding detection
wary of the fear-frenzied,
not wanting to displease
(my thick-bodied hairy-ness
tends to invoke repulsion;
my weak and spindly legs
beget sweats and tremors
I am the stuff of legend –
the black widowed
man-killing, horror queen
with venomous fangs.)
Tragically misunderstood
by overblown accusations,
overlooking the deficiency of size
and the precariousness of my being.
(Sure, I’ve been known to
eat a husband or two,
but who can blame me,
I carry the children alone.)
I am a weaver of tales –
I spew silken threads
whose poetic intertwining
produces the perfect trap
enchanting artistry
of undeniable beauty –
carefully construed tapestries
to ensnare the unsuspecting.
I am not a flesh eater.
I turn my prey to liquid
devour their essence
live off their emotions.
Vulnerability propels
constant motion
I’ve been crushed,
brushed aside, exiled
(sometimes swallowed alive;
it’s a hazard of life –
the unfortunate outcome
of dropping into open mouths.)
My strength is in the telling,
gossamer fibers of truth
spewed from the belly
of this decided ugliness.
I am, in fact, a warrrioress
capturing and annihilating –
through patience and deliberation-
impertinent pestilence.
*Note: this poem is inspired by a series of dreams, in which spiders were the central symbol. See Dream Along With Me