I was eight fingers,
spinning a lie, eight legs
and a web. No cunting flies
could get me or kiss me.
I fingered my threads
like a harpist; foot spittle
that felt their intrusions.
Spiders never marrry.
Eight lies. A dog.
A bird coccooned in silk.
A feather duffed with dust.
My mother and father
spun like thread. A stiff web.
Spiders never marry.
Gay men never kiss.
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