A little jumping spider

A little jumping spider
sat bored upon a stump.
I watched him shift from foot to foot,
shift back. Again. No jump. No jump.

I knew that kind of waiting,
that hollow, hungry stare.
A dozen words to catch, and none —
none of them were there.

Behind the concrete of my mind
she scratched, scratched, scratched the wall.
I cracked it open. She looked in
and said, “Too small.”

Little pest, little witch,
pull the thread, drop the stitch.
You ask for blood, you ask for bread,
then spit the lot, turn your spiteful head.

I build a door — you want a key.
I cut the key — you laugh at me.
Swear it’s done, swear we’re through —
walls grow thick. I call for you.

She wanted snow. I brought her snow.
She held it till it turned to rain.
She wanted fire. I fed the stove.
She said, “You’ve burned it all again.”

I left her at the table,
walked the dark half the night.
Came home to one word, just one word,
scrawled there out of spite.

I crossed it out. I washed the cup.
I swept the hearth. I made the bed.
At dawn I crept down stair by stair
to see the word she’d left for dead.

Little pest, little witch,
pull the thread, drop the stitch.
You ask for blood, you ask for bread,
then spit the lot, turn your spiteful head.

I build a door — you want a key.
I cut the key — you laugh at me.
Swear it’s done, swear we’re through —
walls grow thick. I call for you.

Outside, the spider changed his mind,
leaped — into air.
Landed on a blade of grass
and sat there. Just sat there.

I envied him. I had a page,
a hand that wouldn’t rest,
and one small word I crossed and crossed
that wouldn’t leave the text.

Little pest, little witch,
you leave me scratching at the itch.
You take the warmest thing I’ve said
and hold it up to watch it shred.

Tonight you’ve gone. I’ve locked the door.
Your muddy footprints cross the floor.
I ought to wipe them up. I do.
I fetch a sheet
and follow you.