My spiders hunt like octopedal foxes,

wanderers on silent feet

with jaws like those of alien beings

and little hairs on their ankles;

When I lean close to them and whisper secrets,

I see green eyes filled with images of crannies

and secret dust bunny lovers.

They slip into the night grass

with their fangs poisoned for the insects,

and spring upon brown and black exoskeletons

hiding in the dark, sinking their acid fangs

into flesh, and dissolving fragile organs

within glassy grasshoppers.

In the day, their corporeal forms hide in my walls,

their fingers weaving cobwebs in the attic;

their threads and webs drift in sunrays

like stale foam in tide pools.

I hatch lacewings during winter

and release them into the darkness

until blossoms push ants from the soil

to be devoured.

When it rains, they shiver away to Anansi,

transform themselves into great, ancient arachnids

and sit around his fire;

they bring me back his stories,

and in the mornings,

they leave me perfect corpses, shells

with the ghosts still inside.