by Cassie Keller Cole
There are two spiders in the window.
One—shiny brown body, knobby
legs like crooked fork spikes,
large reflective eyes that do not flutter
to seduce, all her movements measured
to web the other, without bothering
to murmur soothing, sexy words. Silently,
she holds his roundness, slowly circling
him, testing his strength, but he weakens
(flinches) as she nears, encasing him—
star-splayed in her home:
a cozy abode he never meant to enter.
Cassie Keller Cole grew up on Bennett Road in Kuna, Idaho. She enjoys eating homemade oatmeal peanut butter cookie dough mixed with vanilla ice cream. Her essays have been published or are forthcoming in JuiceBox, Hotel Amerik, and The Tusculum Review.
