The Wolf Spider

 

One of many

breaks in the pattern

of the deliberately un-patterned vinyl floor,

barely noticed amongst the decades old scuffs and water stains.

Eight eyes watching me,

as I watch myself in the bathroom mirror,

white foam running off the handle 

of the toothbrush

and onto my chin,

for a moment obscuring the white flecks 

that have grown in my beard.

 

I remember him now from last night,

and maybe the night before that,

when I stumbled in,

bleary and muddled,

for my now recurrent 3:00 a.m. piss.

An apparition.

An apprehension.

Now an urgency

in need of elimination.

 

I won’t kill him.

A refugee chased inside 

by the need to find a mate 

and the chill of late August evenings,

haunted by the premonition 

of a season that he’s never experienced.

If he only knew how cold it can get inside too.

 

 

I push him into the cup,

fat body and skinny legs,

with a wad of toilet paper

that I hold down over the top 

as I head out the back door.

He’ll have to bear it.

It’s better than the alternative,  

as I fling him from myself

 into the dusk.

 

Goldenrod glows in the twilight.

The ironweed that intersperses it

almost matches the color 

that’s creeping into the sky.

Your favorite color.

Our favorite color.

 

I crawl into bed beside you,

my own thickening abdomen and thin legs. 

I want to reach for you,

but you’re wrapped in a blanket, 

then inside yourself. 

Will you still be here when my legs are as skinny

as my father’s and your father’s were

when they lay there before us dissolving like ice in a gutter?

 

I close my eyes and hope 

for one last summer storm to wake me 

before the steady, cold drizzle of fall begins to knock the leaves from the trees.

By Brady Buchanan