Tarantula, by Faith Shearin

Considering all the tarantulas in the office right now, I thought this poem was apropos.


Her voice is as lovely and delicate as a web.

She describes how fragile they are,

how they can die from a simple fall.

Then she tells me about their burrows

which are tidy and dry and decorated

with silk. They are solitary, she tells me,

and utterly mild, and when they are

threatened they fling their hairs, trying

not to bite. She says they are most

vulnerable when they molt: unable

to eat for days while they change.

They are misunderstood, she explains,

and suddenly her description becomes

personal. She wants to keep one

as a pet, to appreciate it properly,

to build it a place where it belongs.

– Faith Shearin


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