If Spiders Could Talk 

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We sat in her blue Jetta smoking our favorite 
cigarettes and talking about our least favorite
things. Her very least was me. 
I knew the obvious answer was her
but instead I mentioned the busy spider
above the speedometer.
She said the psychic told her I’d say that.  
​
She dropped down the visor mirror and
started painting her face, glancing at me
every so often with veiny-brown eyes. 
She checked her phone idly. 
She did that thing where she whips her
hair back over the headrest dramatically. 
Of course this week her hair was jet black again;
I didn’t have to ask Miss Cleo about that.  
​
She said the psychic (mind you, in assured, 
relayed speech...mind you, looking
off towards the ether) was right about everything.
That I was a confused boy 
mixing potions of love and like. 
That she thought about women sometimes.
That the demon who confronted us
wasn’t worried about my bible babble; 
I’d end up like Father Damien,
when her wraps came loose.  
​
I said a number of things back at her. 
The psychic knew, down to third cigarette
I was puffing at. In a fury, I scooped up the web
and the little spider and put it all in my mouth. 

She said the psychic said that I would 
eat the spider along with its web in a fury
and that it would be gross. 
​
Hearing enough, I turned into a gigantic spider 
awkwardly crumpled in the front seat, trying not
to poison the girl next to me.  If I weren’t a spider,
I would’ve asked if her precious soothsayer 
mentioned my current state. 
​
She said, this is exactly why I went
to the psychic in the first place-
you're always doing this sort of thing.
​

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