Let me fear on the body of spider. Not the spirit of them, not the essence, just obscene roundness,
haired. Unable to usher them out, I settle to invite them in, letting wilted bodies decompose~
window side, corner wood and ledge, multitudes gather.

I think This is the end of times, my child’s small form pressed against mine in the corner of house,
sheltered from viewing that which we know is falling. The dead deer behind the fence, our creek dry,
our elder neighbor left to wander.

I offer a palm to translucent body with spinnerets and fangs, small pawed and bent legged.
A storyteller, like me, weaving traps. I observe her walk from finger to wrist, more coordinated than
my motherhood.

Two sets of legs, one right, one left, follow each other. The others move recklessly, or maybe
hopefully, it is hard to tell from this perch of human body where I wait, aversion kissed fingertips,
child brought to chest, watching quietly as I summon the spider. Personal eschatology playing out in
the dusted minutia of lost reverence.