Surprised - Oct. 6, 2026

After the folded newspaper slices left and

right, creates a breeze and hits cobwebs,

I look under the shelf and, in the corner,

a white egg sack and collapsed around it,

a black spider, legs so short and thin it fails

to cover the girth of the cotton ball nursery.

This will be hard, removing mother and

brood and keep them bonded, with a fear

she’ll drop to the ground and run off

abandoning the womb of her children,

without knowing what kind of mother

she would become under duress.

Something else surprises me besides

the threaded mess she made by netting

my bookcase. She’s cracked the dam of

instincts inside me, now leaking

protective ones for a kind of life

I never before cared about.

So stop I must, to think,

to plan my next move

before saying another word.