From your lips to mine you weaved silk in cotton and a spider crawled on akimbo shadows. You screamed my name yet thought of his, your web caught me and I watched you dine on my insides from my teardrop on silk. Every lie was a strand perfectly formed; usually at weekends when guilt forced your lips on the back of my neck by the digital flicker where minutes crept, And tears fell like forgotten heroes. I thought of his drooling jaw curdling the breasts that fed our son. My wife once sang beautifully to him of mockingbirds she’d bring but she brought him a spider and a stepdad who left when the web was finsihed.