by Dennis Ciscel

Many of my brother spirits
have sneaked
into a human's home only to be
crushed or smeared or dried
up in some corner
from the hot and dry and hunger. I had
the good fortune to find someone
who wanted
me. And when he found me
crawling on
his desk top, he explained
he'd love to have
me join him, but to please
build my web over
on the window sill
away from his
work, saying that way we
could better be
good neighbors, and he
wouldn't bother me.

And my web became so
woven and complex
and well maintained on the window
sill, and I grew large and
quick and wise
(not fat, but large) leaping upon
strong young flies
that took my web and I entwined for life.

Not understanding the gender
of things,
my human called me Beatrice, and he
would often speak to me (as I sat in
the sun upon my web and he sat in
his chair behind his desk) of
readings from
Thoreau, Mahatma Ghandi, and Aquinas.

Many afternoons and
evenings passed
this way: His open
meditations on
confessions of Augustine as
I spun
my web around a fly or gnat
or other
thing to eat someday.

And when he died,
his neighbors cleaned his
things away and I
was left alone, woven web of
foods stuffed
underneath me, sunshine
shining from above,
and echoes of the minds of
men and
meditations lingering
inside me
on the nature of mankind and
spiderkind
and all the broken friendships
time has taken.