House Spider

She spins 
the largest web 

we’ve ever seen. 
My sister and I wonder 

if something so small could stop 
the string of our hearts. There is no violin,

just the brown paper sack of her body pissing 
sticky lace. We alert our mother to a new intruder 

in the hall. She hems the pants I wore last year that will hold up 
my sister tomorrow, with a belt. Our mother scaffolds a full inch 

of corduroy. My girls, she says, big enough to touch the sky, holding us 
tight as we watch the spider weave her own home. Her silk 

like a hair falling onto my shoulder, perverse as breathing. 
That night, we stretch our arms out the window 

of our shared bedroom and realize our mother 
was right. We touch the moon, hold it 

up with our fingers, call our mother 
to come look and she says, 

I knew it, applauding. We ask 
if the spider has finished 

her web, nervous about 
touching filament 

in the dark. Let her 
be, says our mother, 

an architect.

CHRISTY PRAHL

Christy Prahl is the author of the poetry collections We Are Reckless (Cornerstone Press, 2023), With Her Hair on Fire (Roadside Press, 2025), and Catalog of Labors (Unsolicited Press, fall 2026). She splits her time between a small workers’ cottage in Chicago and a refurbished Quonset hut in southwest Michigan.