A poem about a spider |
Spider Hole I watched a spider crawl through a hole in the grout of the tile of the sill of the window in my bathroom. A yellow-brown hole stuck at the axis of the three planes; wall, sill and window. It’s black hair-like, stick-like, legs folded out onto the slick shiny tile like time-lapse photography of a flower blooming. It’s dark head and brown hairless body squeezing, dark against the white tiles, frosted window and cream painted walls, as it pushes through into the open. Then a pause while he straightened, spreading his legs, lowering his body till almost flat on the tile. In that pose he seemed painted. The size of a half dollar, thin in body, tiny in head. His legs loosely angled. Then, like a blind man with a cane, one eyelash leg slipped over the bull-nosed lip of the sill. His feet stuck and pulled, almost sliding, along the paint textured wall. In quick stabs he moved down and over, toward floor and where I sat. I rolled the magazine I had been reading. He moved closer, in shorter bursts, more reluctantly. He stopped, twisting his head; he’s spotted me. He spreads his legs to their full diameter, sinking his flat body near the wall. He waits, almost saint-like-- --for me to swing. He falls. His black tooth-brush-bristle legs flailed and then curled into his black and brown belly. Dead. I scoop him up with my magazine, and tip the top toward the garbage can. He slides down, falling weightless into a pile of used tissues and soap wrappers. He tumbles down into the silver cylinder of the can, lost. |