Talking to a Spider
Fast moving invader,
squatting on my bedroom wall,
I swear you’re there to taunt me
with legs that move so wrongly
and pincers thrusting forward.
How I hate you spider.
I called my Dad when I was small,
who came to softly cradle you,
careful not to squash you,
cupped gently in his hands,
he casts you from my window.
How I hate you spider.
Lovers later tried so hard
to convince me of your beauty,
ingenuity, creativity and lack of any poison.
I know you bite and rest at night beside me on my pillow.
My cat drives you towards me. She’s a traitor.
How I hate you spider.
I’ve become your killer. If I see you, you will die.
I won’t cast a shadow as a warning
or send vibrations through the floor that scare you.
I’m the silent killer. My brutality, my mercy.
My boot will be your coup de grâce.
How I hate you spider.
And then one day a spider came hiding in a corner.
Only we lived in this room, and I found I liked you.
Little spider at your loom, I named you Frederick Dear.
My tiny brother, friend in quiet solitude.
We have a truce, a contract clear.
If you grow big, I’ll hate you.
© A.Chakir 2023
The Dreaming Path 
Memories in a web. It’s hard to know if the flies of life need revenge. Old attics in movies have the trademark webs filling the room to signal that it’s an old attic and the secret books covered under could be dangerous to read. Spiders and scorpions and lions, oh my, are not admired by their prey. Some folks have a special heraldor with trumpet fanfare that announces “There’s a predator in the house; send him out.”
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