When I was ten,
I used to drink red wine
with my beautiful black widow,
huddled together in the kitchen
hiding from my dad.
We were in the mountains
smiling at the snow - it looked a lot
like ice cream on a cone.
My spider with her peppercorn smile
and black olives in her teeth.
Biting into bread and apples,
while nursing one of her nosebleeds
that no one could explain.
Her once-black hair now singed with silver
and her shoulders sagging like
dry cleaning in a fancy bag.
Then, like a rush of gold, exploding
all over my body,
her laugh would intoxicate me
shooting soothing poison into my groin.
In a dreamy cranberry haze
I could feel her fingers like
nimble black ropes
shadow roots winding around my torso,
my throat, my mind.
The sticky umbilical spider juice
suction cupping me in place
and her web the warmest,
kindest
kind of deathbed
the kind you believe is meant-to-be.
No comments:
Post a Comment