Spider

She waits. The web is beautiful, sheer, wet with hot dew. Its threads are anchored in cold corners. She doesn't wish to see the corpses. A grasshopper, once, she sucked his blood dry, and licked his body into liquid. Until he ate his arms and legs off, for his shell to fall. She likes bloated bugs, puffed out moths and loud, buzzing flies. She eats them as they emerge from garbage dumps and sinkholes. She spins them with threads as they squirm. She likes when they begin to smell and squeak. And she knows when they twist the tales of web entrapment into epic tales of amore enchantment. She eats them anyway and smiles from shadowed corners. Her limbs look so nice, on naked walls or in nylon webs. They dazzle the head, engorge the body, envelop the soul, until the drained bugs slowly turn dusty and dry, and the spider heads back up to her high perch, her home, to hunt.