1. Six years old, descending the shadow stair.

My nemesis, Wall-Giantess, opens a glossy spider-eye

to challenge mine.

It is unmoving, ringed with eight thick crouching lashes.

Before its gaze I flinch,

flee

to furnish my nerve with tissue paper.

The steadiness of Arachne's sight unsteadies me,

fraying my breath, making my heart

jump

like a student who doesn't know the answer.

My arm quavers. Her eye never blinks.

I shut both mine

and feel my hand strike like an adder's dagger;

then the soft crunch of victory.

 

2. I see the spider on the table

and, as in another year, return

with paper.

Cardstock this time.

The spider climbs onto the liferaft

and I steer it through the door

into the sea-green grass outside.

Let the roving giants find their eyes again.

The world has enemies enough,

and I have courage now

to say friend.