Woman, when you bathe you think you are alone,
But it is not so.
In a shadowy corner,
On a silky web,
A tiny spider gapes,
His eight eyes fixed with fascination
On your soapy nudity.
In the dead of night,
While you sleep,
The tiny spider visits me,
And I, bribing him with a dead fly,
Encourage him to report the wonders he has seen.
I know about your moles,
I know about your wrinkles,
I know that your breasts, though small,
Outround the orange,
And that your thighs
Could make a cannibal out of a fasting monk.
I also know that the dangerous line of your hip,
If shown to architects,
Would make them forsake their dull straight lines
And revise their sketches:
All new houses would be curvy.
And as to that on which you sit,
(I don’t like any of the words we use for it
One being crass, the others imprecise)
Compared to it, the pillow seems but rough.
I will not say more,
For you may take offence.
Please blame not me,
I only repeat what I have heard,
From that tiny spider which,
Even as we speak,
Dangles on his silky web,
Eight eyes he needs,
To see you well;
Such is your beauty.
© Painting copyright: Lee Price
Do you mind the little spider?