F(a)rac(chnid)tal

I find our shadow in the corners

of my bathroom,

but to everyone else

it looks like spiders.

I bag the latest, my fifth this month,

as it skitters around in its crinkled Ziploc forcefield.

I send a picture, my hand for scale,

and my Snapchat notifications start going off

as I quickly type “spiders of Oregon”

into my browser:

Salticus scenicus

“Nope”

Eratigena agrestis

“Omg no.”

Agelenopsis

“You’re braver than I am.”

Phidippus audax

“Get rid of that.”

The spider waits patiently on the counter,

completely still.

Not for a life-sentence,

but for a name: Eratigena atrica.

Harmless, regardless. Most of them are.

I gently scoop up the bag and peer

into the spider’s (eight) eyes,

ignoring the notifications.

I walk to the front door and unlock it.

I open the bag and lightly tip it

onto the unfurling fronds of a fern,

as I have done so many times before.

I pause a moment,

as if in prayer,

honoring the interstitial space that exists

in all of us between

immediately destroying or

deliberately meeting

eyes when confronted

with that which makes us fearful,

the latter of which is why so much is in ruin,

the former of which is why I practice

learning all of my spiders’ names.

I fold the bag which I keep in my kitchen drawer

solely for this purpose,

as the antidote to our primitive condition.

I watch the spider tenuously maneuver

its many legs through the leaves,

and make its way towards its new life.

I slowly turn back towards the house,

as I have done so many times before,

promising to do the same.