||[May. 17th, 2010|12:04 am]
Where did the day go? Well, pat of it went to pulling up foxtails, and part of it went to cleaning the house, and part of it went to hunting black widow spider egg sacks. The last was the part I disliked most. Summer is coming. I'm envisioning tiny black widows scampering all over the house on sultry nights. The way to prevent that is to torch the egg sacks before they hatch, but there are so many this year. The rafters of the garage (where Portia likes to hang out) are full of them. I can't reach quite a few. Too bad I can't teach Portia to operate a torch.|
Probably more egg hunts tomorrow. It's like an arachnid Easter around hear.
Never to Dream of Spiders
by Audre Lorde
Time collapses between the lips of strangers
my days collapse into a hollow tube
soon implodes against now
like an iron wall
my eyes are blocked with rubble
a smear of perspectives
blurring each horizon
in the breathless precision of silence
One word is made.
Once the renegade flesh was gone
fall air lay against my face
sharp and blue as a needle
but the rain fell through October
and death lay a condemnation
within my blood.
The smell of your neck in August
a fine gold wire bejeweling war
all the rest lies
illusive as a farmhouse
on the other side of a valley
vanishing in the afternoon.
Day three day four day ten
the seventh step
a veiled door leading to my golden
flameproofed free-paper shredded
in the teeth of a pillaging dog
never to dream of spiders
and when they turned the hoses upon me
a burst of light.