Spider,        the color of explosion, 

climbs the ladder of words on my laptop screen.

The rain left crystal beads & fence post parachutes.    Spider settles on my right upper corner.

 

In the city, I would never let crawl on me. But here–

 

Crow screams on the roof apex.

I say to him, “You sound ridiculous.”

 

My AirBnB host, a woman with lace over her eyes,

seated upon a chestnut horse–Queen of England–

grazes the shadows beside my perch. 

There is an intimate poem tacked to her fridge,

filled with Corona.

 

Last Sunday, I was in California, 

with my nose in your ear.

 

This Sunday, I’m alone in horse country, drinking wine with newlyweds,

and creatures you taught me to love.

 

It’s May and 

I’m in a bath, first of the last decade, filled the tub with scald, 

red skin, it feels so good.

 

Gray brown lines adorn Spider’s arms–er, legs?, 

eight series of circles,

just like the woman making onion soup in the kitchen, 

her infant son belly flat on the wood.

 

I remember how I put my finger in your mouth 

to examine your backward teeth, because I love you, fiercely.

 

Staying alone in this farmhouse full of spiders 

Mailbox petaled white, as a tomb, 

black cape over the white rose desk, 

boxes contain the letters of the poems I will write for you. 

 

Bread crumb    ink    paths for    one 

electron Spider.

 

She suns herself here on my laptop. 

The willow’s tears firefly     upon the pond.  

She feels right at home, doesn’t she?