Captivity by Adrienne Marie Barrios

When I turn thirty-four, I will capture the spider that lives in the corners of the entryway. I will put him in the largest Ball jar I own, wide mouth, dumping whatever contents in the trash. I haven’t used those lids in years; I have to dig them out of the cabinet above the fridge. I will bring him sticks, small branches, fresh leaves and flowers. I will make a small hatch in the lid only I can open to squeeze in droppers of fresh dew I collect from outside. I will sit in damp parks in tank tops, my arms outstretched, smelling of vanilla, waiting for mosquitos to land and gorge themselves before I trap them in a smaller jar. I will transfer them gently using the smallest of nets, watching them fly through the hatch. The first time, the spider will catch one, wrap it in the web it weaves where the rim meets the lid. I will swear he looks happy. The next time, the mosquito will flutter and zoom and zoom and then die, motionless on the ground, body half in a puddle of dew. I will offer a fly instead, but nothing will change. I won’t understand why. Insects will collect on the bottom of the jar, and I will realize the spider has not moved in a long time, so I’ll shake the jar just a little, and he will fall to the bottom with the flies, shriveled and dry.

Adrienne Marie Barrios spends her time with her dogs, Margot and Phoebe, and eating spicy tomato bisque with her husband. When an idea strikes, she writes.