Of spiders don’t be silly. I never had silk even before all this, no silk except you remind me that your ties are silk and the spiders—
listen, we swallow so many in our sleep, don’t we, that’s what I’ve heard—and we’ve always quietly agreed not to kill the spiders, to let them live
in the quiet corners of our walls and showers, have always said how spiders eat the flies and how spiders eat the ants and roaches and now we have more spiders somehow I don’t know the
science of so many spiders all that silk and now we truly don’t
have the heart to kill.
We watch them weave, one perches between our bedside table and the headboard and we watch it build and build and I ask, “Your ties are really silk?” and you take them from the closet and tell me “No, some are polyester.” I undress, lay my head upon your pillow, try to remember how you used to smell, and I can almost hear the spider’s spiral, and we play a guessing game.
You trail the ties across my stomach, between my breasts, along
my neck, against my clit, and I say,
“Silk
silksilksilksilk,”
even when I’m sure it’s polyester, and the silk is one more kiss you trail across my body and say,
“Yes, love. Yes.”
