My son has made friends

with the daddy-long-legs

under the kitchen bench.

Each morning 

I am freshly summoned

to ‘um ook at em.’ 

Come look at him.

The body: a dot 

of graphite 

huddled in the corner,

its pencil-line legs

all bent up in a scribble.

I am relieved he is not like me 

as a child: afraid of spiders.

‘Ook ook Mummy.’

He is pointing under the bench.

‘It’s is oome.’

His home. 

I can’t bring myself to vacate

the corpse:

I want the friendship 

to last.