Afraid of spiders?

I bite, spin twining, down
onto soft pad pirouette onto soft
space.
Gesture madly for help, get none,
land flat
on my face.

Bringing long sheets of linen you coat
me, bind me
into prey,
into fanged dead thing. Afraid
of death? No, not me,
never.
But I am strung,
threaded, sinewy-made by your
hands and into your
mouth I will go.

Twenty-nine, thirty…
I open my eyes, awake to this time
in my life, in my breath –
something I take in while I wait
for you to stop counting. And when that happens, what?