About Spiders

In the pool I
don't discriminate.
Big ones, little ones,
any spider I find
I scoop and throw it
at my sister.
There is satisfaction
in the scatter.
It's not her I'm after,
but that moment of laughter.
It doesn't survive
its own echo though.

Later we ride bikes
under the illusion of peace.
The Spanish moss plays me
like a song I'll always remember,
whose rhythm I never cared for
and I know I am
all out of tune.
We pedal slowly, a
dance to old memories,
shake our heads at how
we lived them like lyrics,
from mediocre to tragic.
I ask out loud how we
survived this world
and Lauren says
"It was either that or succumb."

Day drones on
and finds us again
nearly naked by the pool,
where Lauren asks what
I'm thinking and says "Me too."
when I say "Mom..."
I say "...where she is now
and why she couldn't
love us enough."
and Lauren says "That she's a dick."
Her words, not mine.
My words are all used up
like forgiveness.

Mother, my Mother
you seep into everything
bitter like that cinnamon stick
which I wanted to believe
would last its refinement
and become something

good for me.
I would have even settled
for something
not bad for me
but you just can't help yourself.

I cannot help you.
There are any unguessable
number of miles between us
and I cannot even 
get away from you.
I am supposed to be
on vacation from
all of your you
and this poem
was supposed to be
about spiders.  

I Say

Glory green this grass
and I am angry 
or in love with you.
As mad as the lesser flowers
are wild, simple
extraordinary things. 

I crush a buttercup,
say "It proves I am strong..."
and pretend I don't care
whether it will glow a golden sun
on the chisel of your chin.
I throw it on the ground and
defy your cholesterol to matter any less
just so long as you are
taking your vitamins at least.
"Confound you, I do not care." I say.

Just like this feeble daisy,
I plucked you out of nowhere and
I swear I'll put you back there. 
"It is only a weed," I say
"white and plain,
and it does not matter."
But it droops its head and
reminds me of you sulking so I
stick it in my hair
"Just to get it out of my face." I say
but as well as I know anything
I know why it's there.

There, scentless,
feather heavy it woos me,
whispers the dangling maybe
I ask every day. 
Finally I say
"It doesn't matter anyway,
these childhood things
need innocence and I do not
believe anymore.
But then. . .
. . .if it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter
and I'll only pull the petals
out of spite," I say
"to make it vulnerable and
naked like me." I say. 

So I pick and I pluck,
I say "No one's keeping track."
but I get to that last and long
and milky leg,
that smooth exclamation point
which trembles in my hand
and I exhale
sunshine
and butter
and wishes,
bluebell
and chicory 
and cherish the lesser things,
the tender ones,
the forget-me-nots filled
with all our tiny forevers
which I say "Once we meant to keep..."
which only ever bloom
in Spring,
in clusters,
in blue and humble promises. 


Later the petal glows warm
and white, as innocent as anything
floating in my tea
and I say
"On this day only,
if I drink it I'll believe."