Arachnophobia
by Dawn Parker
When the knots down my back drape
like spiders, and my heartrate
squashes my ribcage, I think that if
my hair were a web, intricately
designed with perfect patterns, I’d
never have a bad hair day again.
When I walk in a room, my eyes
scurry to every corner to check for
specks dotting the walls like
blackheads; pimples needing to be
squeezed until they pop and the red
drips down the smooth tan surface.
When I was a kid, my brother shared
the Spider-Man action figure with
me, trading it between rooms
because we were Parkers and had a
kinship with the character, until I
dreamt of webs looped across my
arms and I hid it under his bed.
When I was older, I walked through
a web in the kitchen, with baby
spiders embracing their kin across
my skin, until I finally wiggled out
of the cocoon and tried all night to
fall asleep, with my arms hidden
beneath the silk sheets.
When I sit by myself in a freshly
scanned room, with my hair tied off
my neck and my hands folded neatly
in my lap, I wonder if I’m really
Little Miss Muffet, with porcelain
skin and perfect curls, or if I’m
actually the spider trying to reach the
top of the spout, trying to be the best,
trying, but only finding I’m afraid of
myself and
tumbling
all
the
way
back
down.