“his blood ignited by the bellows of loss.”
October 15, 2013 § Leave a comment
The spider can barely walk, his legs are so scared —
he’s got to get from the bar of soap to the uppermost
showerstall tile that is his home, and he has suffered
a betrayal so great he’s lost in his own neighborhood,
crawling on his hands and knees, so to speak, in and out
of the shadows of other tiles he’s passed before but
barely recognizes, given his state of shock and disbelief.
Spiders don’t hear very well — he can’t hear the rain
as it falls and cools his flaming legs, the distant screams
of another’s crisis means nothing to him, he can’t hear
his own heartbeat, an alarm casting his skeleton straight
into hell, his blood ignited by the bellows of loss.
If the gods implore him to hold his saliva, he doesn’t
hear them, he goes on crawling toward the one safe spot,
which has become, in his mind, the destination of his life
and this night rolled into one, a wet bag at the bottom
of which, were it to fall, would lie his demise —
too awful to discuss.
Mary Ruefle, “Spider” — from Trances of the Blast
Completely incidental to Ruefle’s magnificent poem, but it prompted me to recall something I wrote (& quite liked having written) a year or so ago.