Lesley Wheeler Puppeteer One hand calls itself
Fred. It is friendly
and law-abiding.
It wears invisible
polo shirts and lopes
neatly on its five
blunt feet, hooves clipped down
to raw pink. It lifts
its long eager nose
to stroke me or wag
at me righteously.
Spider X is a
drunken lefty. It
slings gangly fingers
past the pivot-thumb
with piratical
swagger. Spider X
makes mistakes and it
is very, very
sorry, it will make
it up to me. I
love it but cannot
trust it. I am glad
none of your other
body parts have names.
That would be creepy.
That would worry me,
if all your members
became a troop of
moist marionettes,
insectile-jointed,
miming instructions
to one another,
crawling into bed.