Killing
the Spider Woman
When I
sleep, he writes, with cautious, compact words, implying
that chronologically, it must be. That upon studying
the succinct interlude of us, he realizes he must return
with fiery wings, beak like the Incas. He says that his breath,
alone, cannot kill the visibility, and if I join the interior
of his windshield, if I exhale with long eye-slit breath,
everything would calm, curiously. Existence would creep,
from neutral and never pump, idly, the bubbled brakes again.
Time does
repeat, over and over, in ceaseless somersaults,
but though I hear him, he never calls. Some days I think I will find
his name, taped placidly in bylines, with Russian women
in antique bridal veils, with children taped up with satin ribbons,
buried passionlessly in cramped newsprint obituaries.
Some days I think we will never be able to slash
the small balloon of us, which is old now, weak, and bouncing
with reckless abandon across every large, empty room I pass.
Copyright © 2001 Erin Elizabeth
