The spiders hate you more than you do them.
They write spider poetry of our icky phlegm,
Our hairless bodies, our shameful four limbs,
How we interrupt them when they sing their hymns.
Poems dedicated to the spider matriarch,
The one whose nest would span Central park,
The one whose mandibles crush every prey,
The one who still lives when the sun grows grey.
They ask the matriarch to rid them of the curse,
The curse of the two-legs that keeps getting worse.
The matriarch’s words for the small ones: “Wait.
Wait until darkness, when the dreadful weight
Of sunlight is lifted, that is when you win.
Creep on their bodies, their disgusting skin,
Lay eggs in their mouths, conquer from within.
And wait once more, in the webs you spin.”