An Allure of Spiders

you think it’s funny to pull down webs,

but I think of the spiders calling them home.

you squash the eight-legged creatures,

and here I am using cups to save them.

you say they’re gross, ugly, abhorrent—

yet I look at you and think the same.

you’re just a kid picking on things smaller than he;

still, I remember the way you tore down those pale threads.

years later

you tell me you like me, with a sloppy grin,

but I recall spiders’ silent cries under sunlight

and

it’s the easiest thing to say no.

you call me ugly as a parting blow,

but I smile

because maybe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said.

“ugly” to you is anathema,

just like those spiders you loved to hate.