Arachnophobia

I sit in the web of the widower, weeping
fanged neurotoxins into flies, wrapping
spider silk around his feast, dining
with gentlest care on prey, spinning
a home for Grandmother Spider, praying
the rains will not wash away, climbing
the layers of translucency, watching
the sun set over the valley, eating
dragonfly and damselfly alike, going
to the center of the nest, he tells me
“From such great heights, build your web.”

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