There are spiders
weeping in our apartment.
In the corners, they sob spider tears
in groups of two or three
or more. If I am silent I can
hear them crying in the wall behind
my headboard.

I find them sitting in the bathtub
playing cards with melancholy eyes.
I see them staining my clothes
with black tears,
or sniffling in their coby houses in
the heating vents by the window.

“It’s infestation,” I scream.
My husband smiles:
“Normal for this time of year.”
But I know better.

Soon they will crawl in my
mouth at night, or wrestle through
the pours in my skin,
to swim in my stomach,
to scuffle up my vertebrae,
and finally,
to claim my heart.

“Forgive me,” I plead as my shoe
slams down. This is when I realize
the weeping is for me. Their community
meetings begin in my name
and end in the cursing of my name.

The sun dives through the window
casting spider shadows
on the furniture and walls.
My childhood cherry tree
growing
in the pattern left behind.