The spider, she
cannot know me
except by the threat
I impose when I try
to scoop her
safely on a sheet
of white paper
out of my bathtub
so I can shower.
I wash the dishes
sharpen the knives
sort the laundry
darks from whites
inside my borrowed house
inside my borrowed life.
I know you can't forgive
that I could not keep
the promise I made
before I was a mother.
How can anyone know
what it will feel like
when the ground beneath
them takes flight, or how
to anticipate if they'll
land safely on the ficus
or be taken outside
to an unknown world
where even the best
possible outcome
results in starvation.
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