The Spider Sends Gifts
by Mike Allen
The event horizon bounds the edge of my web. Your scholars claim nothing can emerge from my silk, no morsels that alight within, not even my own burnt-cinder body. Shine the spotlight here, you'll see nothing, maddening absence, and even more troubling hints of motion as the sleek, dark arches of my legs quiver at frequencies undetectable by eye alone. Then, the milkweed spill scatters from my funnel, wriggling specks of stardust drifting, spinning light, Doppler strands lengthening behind, firework sparks burning brighter as they crawl to you — all my hundred thousand babies, hunting for new homes.
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