“Nicely spun” they say and instantly I become Charlotte
using my web for the welfare of others while waiting
for the two facts of life: offspring and death.
I am told that they come at the same moment
and have to remind myself that though I am a spinster
I am not a spider. Spider is just my avatar
and, truth, my house is home to multiple spiders
whose webs hold it together, and whose yarns
I overhear from the edge of sleep:
Do we truly have a safe harbor? A human beinghas a brush for a hand instead of a rock. Whocares more about the yarn than the trapand can we stay and un-spin our luggageshouting as if from Whosville: listen, listen, if only,hear us and meet us and do not eat usand we will spin your tales into gold, anddecorate your bookshelves, world without end
My tenants have already traced their paths from
children’s books into poetry and the classics
and one recent waking dawn they told me to write a play
in which Charlotte, Anansi, and Ariadne meet
for a beauty contest with a human judge
I said I am not interested in world politics,
and they said, this is our home, and we are
your blessings, speak. And my tuffet became
their hang out and drop in while I spun and spin
and spin with ink as my yarn or the word process-
er on and they move my fingers while I sleep.
I posted this poem at Imaginary Garden, which was defiant because it is not about the day's prompt. Sorry.