weaver’s nightmare

by Megan Amero

i heard you on the phone
the other night, whispering words
i used to dream of, held close to my chest
like the promise of spring, your voice
cutting through the static
slicing my nebulous mind into ribbons
with the cold steel of certainty.

i want you.

imagination made load-bearing,
substance inspires far more terror
than the airy wisps of thought i spin
into a tapestry of my own design.
life’s patterns do not mirror my
own mental loom, and i’ve discovered
i don’t much like to relinquish
my hold on arachne’s talents.

i am terrified that i might one day
consent to have my heart scooped out,
to be held all in one hand, to have
my blood read for filth.
or, worse yet—
that i might turn myself bare,
and that you might find the
calligraphy of my veins to be
utterly incomprehensible.