The Spider

Philippe Blenkiron

"Is God a Spider?" I asked,

"constantly weaving

electron threads into

spiraling elemental webs?

His iron will, spun

with a silk of liquid steel,

torn by the slightest of whims?

His tenacious tapestry resewn,

a glistening embroidery

of frosted jewelled fibrils?"

"God scares me," you said,

"In the corner of the room,

observant, unmoving,

a silent host of eyes.

His uncanny mechanics,

a mystery of hydraulic ink

wrapped in adhesive shadow.

"But He's a friend," she replied

"Call Him carpenter,

cellar-dweller,

a long-limbed daddy,

because He eats

flies like sins, labours

in your shed while you hammer and nail,

accompanies your best wine.

Raise a toast, man, raise your cup

high

to the ceiling

to Him

then you can slide something thin

between the glass and the wall

and take Him outside

so he doesn't bother anyone."