My Arachnid Neighbor

by ELIA ANIE KIM

When I was disabled from a strange ailment,
it’s true that I was feeling a little lonely.
Then one day, an orb weaver moved in
beneath the air conditioner on the terrace
and wove her exquisite web every night.

Unable to experience life as I had before,
and being an immensely curious woman, 
I learned about my arachnid neighbor,
how she lived, how she sensed, how she ate,
and began to live vicariously through her.

When she built her wheel-shaped web at night,
I bounded through space with my eight legs,
spinning silk threads into frame lines and radials, 
and stitching my sticky spiral from outside inward,
then hung heavy from the hub with my claws.

When I felt the sudden vibrations of an insect, 
I dashed across the web before it got away, 
grasping at the threads ahead in untidy haste.
Then I wrapped it in silk, stilled it with venom, 
and turned it into a delicious smoothie to drink.

Some nights I just hung and waited patiently,
pulsating back and forth in the breeze,
watching the blurry orb of light glide slowly
across the shadowy dark and listening 
to the wingbeats of insects as they fluttered by.

One day, I found myself weaving an egg sac,
pumping my swollen abdomen back and forth 
animatedly into the bed of my retreat.
There I laid my eggs, and there I would
return each night before the light of day.

But we both knew her end was near.
She stopped building a new web
and instead let the weary threads decay.
We resigned to our old age and infirmity,
staying in our retreat all night and day.

As she began to fade, I laid by her side
beneath the nursery bed but couldn’t stay.
She drifted away;
the night grew still.
I stared at her tattered web and cried a lot,
and returned to my lonely disability.

Then one day, I saw a jumping spider on the wall.