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Spiders Are Creative |
“Don’t bring the landscape
home with you tonight,”
She said,
as she rubbed her eyes
until sleep turned into light.
I thought of Autumn,
deep brown and naked,
inviting itself into our home.
A dark, early woman
a little dangerous in the eyes—
raw boned and ready
to share the warmth of our bed.
She’d never go for that
three’s company crowded business,
nor would I—
Autumn was too lean,
too stark,
to sustain our fire.
Too shaky to measure
the grievous seasons of rain
and brief miracles we shared
by hand.
We shut it off—
chipped paint shutters pale blue
locked over paned windows wheezing.
We shuddered with them,
then let go.
Realizing the light
and shadow between our skin
was company enough.
Secretly keeping dry kindling
in a kingdom of rain was our crime.
Autumn rapped on the door,
eyed the weary peephole,
blew on her whistle,
served us her slight paper sound—
a hungry brown spider weaving,
testing the resiliency of her own silk
before swallowing something whole
or, perhaps, losing it entirely.
She placed an ear to the door and listened,
returned and softly slipped back into bed.
“I like spiders, they’re creative,”
she said,
before merging her body with mine.
Rising and falling tongues
of raw fire eschewing words—
knowing the coming silence
was enough of a share
and that the silk
would hold us together
for at least another season.
copyright 2014
William
Crawford |
