The spider who lives outside my bedroom window 

only appears after dark. 

She works harder than anyone I know, 

climbing invisible circles and 

wrapping meals through the night. 

Spider is my friend. 

We all want a warm body nearby at night, 

no matter how many legs it has.

The streets are quiet, but interrupted by sirens, 

ring-ting-ting. 

I jump when I hear them. 

Spider jumps too, 

shaken by wind or the flashing lights. 

I don’t know if spiders can hear. 

I wish Spider goodnight, just in case.

At breakfast, steam rattles the metal lid on the pan, 

ring-ting-ting. 

My reflection is wide and my mouth is gaping. 

I could swallow the whole city if I wanted. 

Spider has a narrow mouth, 

but she could swallow it too. 

After all, this place is just made of fog and sauce, 

and Spider prefers her food liquefied anyway.

Maggie Petrella (she/her) is a poet living in Buffalo, New York. She is a business analyst with a passion for bagels, warm blankets, and soft words. She has been making noise for 25 years but is still finding her voice. Her poetry has appeared in Detritus Online and dreams walking, and she has forthcoming work in Variety Pack. She tweets @maggie_425.