cunt. bomb.
Coming Soon: February 2019
A Spider
Poem for my Mother
A pregnant spider scurried across my shin
today and I did not kill it. I wondered at my 
control to not gag-reflex, murder the thing.
Usually, spindle-legged creatures, with all 
their movement and silence spurn me to 
hatred. I don’t like being touched without 
permission. But she, she was a thing of beauty.
Womb-swollen and desperate. Or in the very 
least lost. No hair, just svelte and dangerously
calm. She reminded me of you. Reminded me 
of a memory I allowed to let slide down my 
throat, web-soft and translucent.
The day my father choked your neck,
your throat was a pregnant shock of red, eyes
bulging and then soft again when he let 
you loose. Or did you wrangle free?
I saw a spider in the corner of the kitchen.
Right above your head, where he held it
and it dented the plaster.
Breathless, suspended and looking nowhere.
Who can look anywhere when being strangled?
He did not. You did not look at me.
But I saw it all. And that tiny witness holding 
space, frozen as to not be noticed. To not be
crushed, looked on. Guilty. Innocent. 
A thing that didn’t understand 
how humans can be so irresponsibly cruel.