With pleas to return to the corner of the room,
They lisp thin breaths in rhythm
To time her steps and encourage velocity.
Too loosely clasped to turbulent sounds,
They sprout tucked legs and flail
Like petals that grow frail spikes,
Even when blown off the tree.
Spiders never mourn for a straight path.
Their legs will convulse outwards and throb quietly.
They reach for things out of grasp
And pray that branches continue to grow.
Floor boards warp with humid sighs.
Permission cools the dark film of fur on their bodies.
Their chewing mouth parts flex to exhale,
And they slide off her hair like dark licorice drops.
They pierce liquid gravity with the sharp angles
Of the joints they flex and crack
like little snaps in noisy gearboxes.
When the boom of the old clock smacks the floor,
Fear causes them to lose their spiny footing.
They choke and roll about like dusty marbles.
She does not wear costume at home.
Fuzzy necklace beads rattle on about coexistence.
Drooling black masses smile from the jewelry box.
From threats of slipping arise caution signs
That make our house unwelcoming.
Spiders clamber off the string, just to grow and live new life,
Silently, scratches deepen along the same wall,
The same space donated for learning to walk again.
Drunken kicks from thousands of legs hinder those next door.
