Spiders
I've seen houses infested with spiders so small
that they hide underneath our eyelids
revealing themselves when we blink.
We can blame them for the numbers that tick through our dreams.
the scrolling stocks under our tv screens.
It's true that I love the enemy,
or a semblance of who you thought killed your husband,
ripped the stuffing from your son's teddy bear,
who left your gift wrapped in the junk drawer.
He is not a mirror image
not an altar made of shopping bags
and empty fry containers.
I want to take him to your churches,
down every corridor of cubicles
through every Alabama drive-through.
I would be called a whore
a traitor
an unbeliever
because I give you this.
Because I am choosing contrast over symmetry.
Because I have shed the spider's legs, I have
shaken off their skeletons.
Because I refuse to butter my bread in this house anymore.
Because I want to dream the same dream every night.
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