The Spider Farm
by Christian Drake
In my country, the silkworms are barren.
Our fathers planted the wrong mulberry trees,
the red kind,
all the way to the horizon,
and the worms
make no milk and become brown moths.
Instead, we farm spiders.
They upholster the trees in cobwebs, the orchards draped
like furniture before the house is emptied.
We are known as the ghost keepers. In August
you can hear the wings of monarchs beating
against the silk long into the night,
there are so many. I have heard owls
I could not find to free in my dark orchard,
begging softly from their cocoons.
It is quiet during our days, without birds.
Everything is caught here: dragonflies, milkweed seeds,
a low-lying moon in the silk purse
of a dead mulberry tree,
glowing like an x-ray.
We are caught here, too,
in our abiding way, accustomed to the spiders
that tiptoe across our sleeping infants' cribs
and leave strands of silk in our hair
and bites on our thighs upon waking,
spiders glimpsed in the bathroom mirror, the still spiders
that watch us make love from the ceiling,
the spiders
that sew up the entrances to our mailboxes,
our church hats, our front doors
if we are not always sweeping.
It is hard work, to keep from being stitched into their fabric.
The web will blindfold and swallow you if you sleep too long.
But we are happy in the harvest season, when
we shake the spiders from their wool
and children chase and stomp them
beneath their little shoes
and we play the violin as the looms keep time.
It is the best silk, delicate
yet impossible to tear
like the blueprints of heaven.
It loves indigo and the purple
we boil from snails.
Only the richest can afford our silk.
It takes ten thousand spiders to weave a shirt.
But they say you can feel
your own heartbeat when you wear it,
that nothing compares to its touch,
how it moves intimately like it knows you,
how you barely notice it
crawling across your skin.
CHRISTIAN DRAKE from Albuquerque, NM is a six-time National Poetry Slam team member, and
has appeared on Finals stage as a performer numerous times. He founded the Hampshire County
Slam Team in 2004, and was a co-host of the Berkeley Poetry Slam and Oakland's Tourettes
Without Regrets variety show for several years. He now co-curates the Poetry & Beer show in
Albuquerque while working on his career as a naturalist. His science writing can be found at
quantumbiologist.wordpress.com.
In my country, the silkworms are barren.
Our fathers planted the wrong mulberry trees,
the red kind,
all the way to the horizon,
and the worms
make no milk and become brown moths.
Instead, we farm spiders.
They upholster the trees in cobwebs, the orchards draped
like furniture before the house is emptied.
We are known as the ghost keepers. In August
you can hear the wings of monarchs beating
against the silk long into the night,
there are so many. I have heard owls
I could not find to free in my dark orchard,
begging softly from their cocoons.
It is quiet during our days, without birds.
Everything is caught here: dragonflies, milkweed seeds,
a low-lying moon in the silk purse
of a dead mulberry tree,
glowing like an x-ray.
We are caught here, too,
in our abiding way, accustomed to the spiders
that tiptoe across our sleeping infants' cribs
and leave strands of silk in our hair
and bites on our thighs upon waking,
spiders glimpsed in the bathroom mirror, the still spiders
that watch us make love from the ceiling,
the spiders
that sew up the entrances to our mailboxes,
our church hats, our front doors
if we are not always sweeping.
It is hard work, to keep from being stitched into their fabric.
The web will blindfold and swallow you if you sleep too long.
But we are happy in the harvest season, when
we shake the spiders from their wool
and children chase and stomp them
beneath their little shoes
and we play the violin as the looms keep time.
It is the best silk, delicate
yet impossible to tear
like the blueprints of heaven.
It loves indigo and the purple
we boil from snails.
Only the richest can afford our silk.
It takes ten thousand spiders to weave a shirt.
But they say you can feel
your own heartbeat when you wear it,
that nothing compares to its touch,
how it moves intimately like it knows you,
how you barely notice it
crawling across your skin.
CHRISTIAN DRAKE from Albuquerque, NM is a six-time National Poetry Slam team member, and
has appeared on Finals stage as a performer numerous times. He founded the Hampshire County
Slam Team in 2004, and was a co-host of the Berkeley Poetry Slam and Oakland's Tourettes
Without Regrets variety show for several years. He now co-curates the Poetry & Beer show in
Albuquerque while working on his career as a naturalist. His science writing can be found at
quantumbiologist.wordpress.com.