The spider had an abdomen like a
mouse and after I stunned it with a nudge
but was afraid to squash it I showed
it to my father who said:
Put it in a jar, seal it tight,
and write on the label:
On this date I separated this thing
from the world in which it could do harm.
Before he left he pointed out its
fangs and their perfect
mechanism. It had a tail for camouflage
or disguise or balance. It began again to move
and as I tried to cover it with a glass
inflated so the cup's diameter
wouldn't encompass it
entirely. As it recalibrated I knew
my squeamishness had been a mistake
and I was afraid. I left and shut the
door and wrote on it what my
father had suggested. The walls weren't smooth
though and the cracks and crumbs would allow it
to grow and climb. I went out of there
and forgot the spider which has continued
to gain traction and precision.
Someday a boy will enter the room
and carefully loosen the threads that
time has corrupted into binds. The spider
will have molted into an armored monkey
that'll regard its rescuer coldly.
They'll leave together and find me.
They'll laugh at my useless containers,
my empty jars, and my soft belly.