quaking spiders

wake me screaming,
dreaming spiders threaded
like diamonds, like feathers, 
like berries on a vine, wrapped--
your hand 'round my neck, choking

"hush, hush, huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuush."

gasp the name you gave the puppy
you sneaked home in second grade
because it's only now
(breath ragged, eyes wide)
you remember that puppy had a collar,
had an owner, had a home
before

--you--

ripped off her tags,
left them heaped in the bushes down the block,
told dad her name was intuition
because mom wouldn't let you keep her otherwise.

and i am quivering, quaking, quiet;
just another plaything you spirited
from somebody else's fenced-in yard.