To summon a spider into the heart

Begin with a small black rock; smooth enough to glide over the palm
smooth enough to slip down the throat, but first —
move it in circles around your shoulders while
your shoulders move in circles, move it
across your chest, both sides to make an X and mark the spot
with a low wail from the back of your back, a slick black growl you pull through your own well.

Dispense with the salt circle, save it
for a long soak to soothe your limbs: you must lie still
prone on the cold wet ground, you must put
your lips into the mud and suck. Let the sobbing subside
when it can.

Be sure the species you invoke, check her bloody spot, the shine
of the legs, shatter the black mirror to compare her eyes,
and when she moves upon you

the urge will be to choke, gag, to pull out your own arms and tear
open your ribs. Do not succumb, do not squirm even
as she prods for the open space to enter — your vulnerable place,
an eye, the crook of your elbow, down the throat where you’ll swallow
the stone to seal the spell.

The heart? A liability. A delicate muscle she will wrap in silk for safe-keeping,
where you will find, in time, in place of that tender pump,
a womb-full of spiders.