I envy the spider

A poem

You, small and still with your four telescopic eyes,

staring at me high from this cold, cracked wall,

with eight hairy legs gripping on your silky home,

as though you are withholding a soft, silent secret.

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I lose the staring contest—the patience of it all.

While my scattered books are flashing, begging

me to come back, to focus and be patient like you,

I call my brother, please get this creature out.

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But you are not there when I come back, not a shadow

of your limbs, not a trail of steps in the ceiling's cavities.

The word ‘home’ comes from a Germanic verb meaning to hide,

but why must you hide in mine? Why must we play games?

All I've ever known is to seek, and to seek, but never to hide.

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The last remnant of you is the skeleton of your home;

the intricately woven web, glinting in the fairy lights,

silky, smooth, sticky mess of carcasses and loss, spiral

and delicate—capturing the absence of my home.

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I envy you, lost spider. To carry home within yourself,

to be promised a home without a trail pulling you back,

to abandon every built fortification for somewhere new,

to transform without grief slowly trapping you whole.

Was this your soft spun secret, silent spider?

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I hate substack formatting so here's how it's supposed to look!

Shoutout to that one spider who vanished from the face of earth in my room, I hate you but I envy you.

Love,

Afifa