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
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.
