ARACHNIDIAN DOUBLE-THINK

HERE LIE THE WORLD-SPINNERS
on an armature. Spinnerets shoot silk as
cold as a lover’s touch. Strong red wine
and charcuterie, a moment of nitrous; see:
as you feast, the moment stretches. Past
pardon, the King stands. Grins; framed, a
being pinned by 90% alcohol and stakes
suffering — beneath his palm, it quivers,
knowing this life only lives in a last breath,
a hapless victim of profit-driven practices. Here
silk from our orifices creates the fabric of
the throne upon which he sits. You don’t
care — it is the end of a life; we will die
to prevent this, to stop our lovers’ tears
we weep in each other’s arms, and you:
from yourself. Here lie the eight legs of
the world-spinners, made into sculpture —
before this, we never parted; now, we know
our people are dying in open exhibits. Watch.

WHERE TWO WORLDS INTERSECT:
we sit on your new vertex, our lips stained
with pizza sauce. Normal things. Steel guns,
bodies pressing — normal things. I look up
the stock of your second amendment and a
strawman of myself peers back. With arms
of our own, we know: a normal thing; this is
the future. We’re going to lose people and watch,
watch only us sing our eulogies as you claim
lies: Demagoguery, that we are sin. But the
reality — the reality is that we are afraid of
rest. We are not predators, and it is not about
whether we want to or not — we must fight,
in the blaring of sirens, in schools; in graves,
you bury us. We do not look away; you hide
justice in your siege, worry in your wrath. Still,
we know: We must keep us safe. In our worlds,
we did well. But this is not one of them. Here,
I stand, merging two pistils you mistake for a gun.