Today, pulling weeds in the garden,
I saw a spider whose 
abdomen and head and legs 
were bright green,
the same shade of plant
I’d just wrested from the ground.

I let out a little gasp
as the wind pressed through 
the grass’s spindled seed heads
and I felt a familiar wonder 
bloom within me, the thought 
I have NEVER seen this before,
which comes if I move slowly enough 
to let myself get drenched in surprise,

and suddenly the spider became 
all the things I don’t know yet,
climbing the wooden fences
at the edge of my brain, 
woven so delicately with mystery,
poise, dew just after rain.

And I thought of all the 
photos of spiders 
that friends and neighbors
have shared on Facebook and Nextdoor:
Look at what I found in my house,
what should I do with it?

The commenters always have the same chorus:
Kill it! It’s definitely a Brown Recluse!
while my scientist friend and I patiently 
ask them not to,
point out at least 5 observable differences 
between their spider and the Recluse, 
explain that there are over 3,000 
species of spiders in North America
and Recluses don’t even live in this part of California, 
tell them
it’s probably a Callobium
who are so fond of wandering inside come autumn,
resist giving a lecture on how 
when you say “probably” 
in science it means you’re actually pretty damn sure 
but want to leave some room in case you’re wrong. 

And I thought there it is again––
how easily we press danger 
on the innocent, on what we don’t know.
How many people have been killed 
for looking like a threat 
when they had done nothing wrong,
when they were just existing in their body, 
how quickly suspicion rises when
we’re not curious enough.
The swiftness with which
we reach for hate.
How the gun is grasped 
before one word is spoken. 

How the first sentence of 
every Google search preview 
about every kind of spider says
whether it is venomous or not. 

I, who have loved spiders since I was 10, 
looked for them everywhere, 
studied their webs in wonder, 
am asking you to move more slowly.

I want every person you ever meet
to wear a necklace engraved with the words
You have never seen me before, take tender care.
I want to replace all of the sentences
about all spiders with that sentence.
I want the message to look you right in the face
so you remember to treat everyone like something
bright and green and new, 
worthy of your slow attention. 

Even the spider at the corner of your closet. 
Even someone you were told to fear.
Even your best friend or aging mother,
who you think you know 
but have never actually seen before
as they are on this spring day, 
so full of pollen and dew.