Perhaps It Crawls Inside

We all, occasionally,
have a spider crawling upon us, without our knowledge
or consent
It only makes sense
     Walking beneath canopies of foliage or flower, trellis or arbor,
through doorways–and sometimes at night, I would imagine,
while we lay asleep and unaware
Perhaps across our face,
perhaps resting in our hair, considering
our open mouth from which bellows a great, sweet wind
as it considers its path to wherever it’s driven
Making its way over us
     You’ve felt the tickle on the nape of your neck, the back of your ear
You’ve reacted with a frantic swat at the itch, at the thought,
sometimes correct,
and sometimes not
     But sometimes, while we aren’t even aware,
with no tingle, no itch or tickle at all,
you know sometime one has crawled upon you,
with all of its light weight 
suspended from all eight of its limbs,
having hung by a line, a single whisper wide
and landed, without you knowing
and crawled upon you,
perhaps even now
     Perhaps it crawls inside

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Perhaps It Crawls Inside is the most recent of my Free Little Chapbooks, see them all here.

Thank you for following me through April, National Poetry Month, the cruelest month (according to old T.S.). I went to the desert myself this month, where spring rain left it as lush as one could wish for in that context, with those roots, none of which I’d call dull. I mixed desert and mountain, ocean and woods, driving from Las Vegas back home to Seattle during this month with a poem-a-day to keep me company, and a partner by my side. A morning poet and a night doula sharing the drive and learning how to grieve together. New memories, made from mixing the old with desire, is indeed a powerful balm. Thank you Mr. Eliot.

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