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Spider Legs
I imagine you’ll be wearing a white
crew-neck sweater, curved at the
nape, bare, and you’ll have spaces
between the skin on your lower
wrists where there once had been
wounds, but I won’t ask you where
they came from when I hesitantly
curve your fingers with mine
After dinner you’ll take me to your
favorite hideaway behind the Ten
Mile River where you’d say you like
to sit and shrink from the world like
spider legs after they die, and I’ll
listen to you talk quietly about the
meaningless of life as you skip rocks
into the river making wrinkles in the
water beneath our feet
At night you’ll lead me back to your
condo and we’ll share a bottle of
Cabernet and you’ll be four glasses
in before I tell you to slow it down,
but you won’t, and by midnight we
are on our backs, fully-clothed, and
I’ll reach over and graze the skin on
your arm but you’ll shrink back in
timidity like a Mimosa that folds
inward when you touch it.
(2013)
