An Epiphany

I have seen the Brown Recluse Spider 
run with a net in her hand, or rather, 
what resembled a net, what resembled
a hand. She ran down the gleaming white floor 
of the bathtub, trailing a frail swirl 
of hair, and in it the hull of a beetle 
lay woven. The hair was my wife’s, 
long and dark, a few loose strands, a curl 
she might idly have turned on a finger, 
she might idly have twisted, speaking to me, 
and the legs of the beetle were broken.