Jane Wilkinson

It’s possible
my son
is a rare spider
his enamelled surface
sheens blackpurple
and is radiant, glaring like burnt diamond.
He is about the size of a tarantula
about the size of my palm where he rests and warms in my sunlight, he is roughly triangular.
He can get about
brilliantly, doesn’t resent
his limitations. Sometimes he
even removes his own individual body parts, thorax and legs, to be
less fantastically
mobile because he clearly
seems to understand
it is us, who are constrained
by bulk and lack
of grip; unaeronautic.
In safe proximity to the dark crawlspace
underneath the sofa,
he gently plays with nothing
but the lightest of toys, balloons and crayon-
coloured bricks,
the hollow plastic type.