Sew me up with the silk of spiders
before I am eaten alive.
If I am exposed and the birds find me
they will poke and prod until I come undone.
But if I am made of fibers and fangs
venom, and spinnerets- they won’t find my eggs.
They may prey on the parts
of me that come undone.
That rip and tear with the pull of beaks and the
gentle horrors of wings that do not flutter for delight or beauty,
but in pursuit of raw hunger to satisfy a nest
of jealous hatchlings that compete for a mother’s love.
But what is a leg to a spider?
I still have seven more.
I will ascend and watch as the mother chooses
which hatchling to feed,
since it damns her more than I to decide
which hatchling lives and which hatchling dies.