by Chiara Di Lello

First, know that I bear you no ill will.
Of all the things that have happened to me
without my knowledge, you are one of the kindest.
You will not leave me wrecked or vengeful,
second guessing quiet moments with a feeling
like shadow hands drawstringing my throat.
You and your swallowings-yet-to-come are a reminder
that we can say we love truth only to a point
after that it’s like the Woody Allen quote: I’m not afraid
to die, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.
Spiders, just see to it that I’m not there when you happen.
Let me enjoy my sleep and my recurring dream
where I float as if on one of your silken tethers.
When your delicate legs eight, seven, six
pass five, four, three between my lips two, one
make sure I don’t know a thing, wound up tight
in dreamlessness. When your tiny glints of eye
stare up the hollow of my esophagus like it’s Plato’s cave
as far as I’m concerned I know nothing of spiders
or secrets, no lines of insidious light beneath shut doors.
The truth is I envy you, spiders, even knowing I am your end.
I have walked out after a late, slow darkness fell
and found the night a living breathing thing
but only you will feel it grant that engulfing wish:
to take the beautiful sturdiness of your body
and swallow you whole.

Chiara Di Lello is a writer and educator. She delights in public art, public libraries, and getting improbable places by bicycle. For a city kid, she has a surprisingly strong interest in beekeeping. Find her recent poems in Variant Lit, Whale Road Review, and Across the Margin, among others. Twitter: @thetinydynamo.