Red
From a crevice
in the molding
a tiny spider
smiled
like the sun
sometimes
she slept
or kept to herself
and we understood
we were alone
Then we would soap
each other’s hair
til it stood in peaks
and clap
the rippled flanks
til the dark
echoed
through them
when we were
comfortable
with each other
she padded
onto the soap dish
a tinkling arpeggio
of legs
we held our breath
so as not
to
disturb
a
thing
One day
red was gone
the months
trailed
each other
only the web remained
collapsing
into itself
like
a storm
I am reposting Red, not because I think it is my best,
but because it makes me happy to revisit it.
This was a poem that was easy to birth. It was written during a chaotic time when
unspeakable things were unfolding in my family of origin. It was easy to write because it was
true. I hope you enjoy it.
I like this one too:
maybe it will rain
and the crickets
anarchists as they are
will wind time backwards
on a broken spring.
I like this one too:
Tall Grass, a painting by Nadine McHenry, Artist
Blue rainmaybe it will rain
and the crickets
anarchists as they are
will wind time backwards
on a broken spring.
