Spider

My hands are a spider

Crawling away

Drawn to calm

Hide in pockets

 

Smooth the bone of first met palms together

My thumbs become fangs

My eight fingers

Become legs

 

No steel web and no glittering eyes

Flat bodied

A ghostly sight

While completely blind

 

The knuckles bow and curve in

The joints begin

To whiten

And close together

 

My hands are a spider

Confident black widow

Instinct dead

Inside her

M.L. Wright


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