to his fellow arachnids: He was, he said, the future.
The one. The only. The liquid silk yardstick by which
all spinners will be measured. A true blue-blood,
he travels the earth with no more than four legs
bound to ground at any one time. There were those
who mock him and his extra appendage; called it a tail,
or a faux penis. A failed Phoenix. Others delighted in
turning themselves over and laughing with their legs
in Happy Baby pose. Elders squinted with malice
and unhidden disdain, unable to be as flexible.
His possible mates, however, were intrigued
by his transmogrification, and huddled around
as if hypnotized. All too willing to weave a web
with him, to go where he went, to spin, to seek,
to further blur the line between prayer and preying.
Richard Weaver lives in Baltimore where he volunteers with the Maryland Book Bank, acts as the Archivist-at-Large for a Jesuit college, and is the now the official poet-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub and Restaurant. He is the author of The Stars Undone (Duende Press). Recent poems have appeared in River Poet’s Journal, Southern Review, Little Patuxent Review, Loch Raven Review, Adelaide, Slush Pile, and Elsewhere. (Yes, there is a magazine named Elsewhere).
