Chelicerata

Mother spider,

she wanes to wrap her children -

it's a sordid affair,

and eight faucets fault at once,

and it must be done.

No burial is more loving

than one tucked away

into dustbins of discards.

No grave is lonelier

than one left unmade:

a lazy morning's heartbreak

that won't roll out of bed.

She sows pristine dresses

for her paper-doll children.

Tomorrow they will finally

fray, and she'll be left with

split milk's acrid taste.

Outside it's February, and

the closet's own brittle bones

have weathered.