Air ballooning
For some spiders this is an annual event.
For some it’s a technique for survival,
to run away from flood, fire, knife, boot, any abuse.
They must have a built in warning system,
a rocket up their arses that sets them off
on an unknown journey into space.
They climb as far as they can upwards
in trees or bushes until all there is is sky.
They fire, shoot their silver threads and
follow Jack’s story into the clouds, never
worrying about death. At some point
they all fall together, rain down in a tribe
to another place. Maybe it’s a God thing,
or just a miracle. Whatever is left in the air
is called angel hair, light strands of abandoned silk,
their leap of faith phenomenal.
The children wished their mother had
the wherewithal to air balloon them away
from demons and ogres, the man who
made them eat soap, who pushed their heads
down the toilet, chased mum with a knife,
who constantly spun fear.