Eight-fingered hands, black plums of venom
under logs, spiders jot silk to the wind
where my kisses blow. I doubt they love me
in return. To orchard weavers
humans must seem Cthulhu-huge monsters
smashing their flesh to paste, so light
I can’t hear their legs rasping
like dark snowflakes petting the ground.
Some dangle on webs, wrapping flies
in gossamer tortillas. Shaggy pinballs,
jumping spiders pounce on carpets,
abdomens fat with gnats and eggs,
spiderling kernels ripe for birth.
People fear those jittery grapes
yet Earth’s the only world where spiders
shroud twigs in diaphanous bridal veils.
Eric Fisher Stone is a poet from Fort Worth, Texas. He received his MFA in creative writing and the environment from Iowa State University. His book of poems, “The Providence of Grass” was published by Chatter House Press in 2018. His second book of poems, “Animal Joy” is forthcoming from WordTech Editions in 2021.