Big floofy black spider
coat like a puli dog
lives in the hole of my door
the one that was left when the antique one was replaced
and the modern one didn’t quite fit the old moorings
left a dowel shape through which you could have peered
had I not pushed a rolled up tissue plug
into it from the inside

I’ve seen you and your friends
hanging around the little walled stoop
where I take my coffee and nicotine
in the blaring of sun or rain

You remind me of my mother
I wonder if it’s she, returned

when I was about 3
I think it was while I was in the bath,
her tickle hand became
a spider named Cris,
who I talked to
and played with
and comforted
(he was quite a fearful spider)
and who I obsessively drew pictures of
all over my door and dressers and notebooks
I drew him as a circle
with straight lines fanning outwards
a primitive sun
his shoes all faced the same direction
and caused him to resemble a spinning wheel
It is still a symbol
I tend to draw on things
even in my mind

A spider is a good symbol of a writer
and the web of all things is decorated
with the many works you caught
and fed to me 
it is all connected

precious spider.
If I was small enough
I’d ride you.