How I despise them, these enemies of humanity
from time out of mind.
They were with us in our caves
and they’re still with us in our houses.

Outside in the open air it’s live and let live.
So you want to truss up a horse fly in your living room,
Mr. or Mrs. Garden Spider,
and suck him slowly dry

like a warm, shriveling popsicle?
Be my guest.
It’s no skin off my nose.
I can’t even hear his screams.

But once you cross my threshold
war has been declared.
No quarter will be asked or given.
I will hunt you down and crush you without mercy.

You set up camp in every corner of every room
yet I’ve never seen you sign a lease or pay rent.
Your hunting trophies, those forlorn insect mummies,
are nearly as disgusting as you are.

What kind of coward sneaks up on a person
in the dark while they’re dreaming of sunsets
and endless fields of daffodils
only to sip blood from their most intimate parts?

Don’t preach to me about the oneness of all life
with this creature crawling up my leg
looking to feast on my flesh.
They’ll even lower themselves into your mouth

while you’re snoring.
Did you know the average person
swallows several dozen spiders a year that way?
All right, I’m making that number up,

but it’s probably not far off.
Go ahead, try to finish your tiramisu now.
Lame, arthritic arachnids,
advancing on me at one mile per year,

I can almost tolerate.
The faster they are, the more they give me the shivers.
Why are they in such a hurry to take what is not theirs?
The venomous varieties are the worst.

When you have the secret advantage of poison,
everything else can go to hell.
That’s why black widows look so shabby and unkempt,
their webs as crooked and haphazard

as those woven by spiders dosed with LSD
(CIA scientists in the nineteen-fifties had all the fun).
When I bring rough justice to one
with a folded paper towel,

both weapon and funeral shroud, I say,
welcome to eternity, tiny malevolence.
I hope you enjoy the dark web of the afterlife
because you’ll be dead a long time.