Its tiny body crunched beneath me
like a multiple car collision.
I think of all that spider was worth,
all it had to offer to this world. All
the gnats she could have eaten
I must now swat out of my face,
all the children she could have birthed,
and all the things she could have
taught them: Stay out of sight.
Away from the humans. They don’t
listen to reason, so don’t speak.
Go to the water, to the light.
Away from the sounds. I wonder
why she broke her own rules. I think
she thought of herself as clever,
beautiful, unconquerable, and as
I survey her corpse, so do I. How
it must have felt for her once
indestructible body to explode
within her, caving in all around her,
like the whole planet was splintering
at its very seams.
WANDA DEGLANE is a night-blooming desert flower from Arizona. She is the daughter of Peruvian immigrants and attends Arizona State University, pursuing a bachelor’s degree in psychology and family & human development. Her poetry has been published or forthcoming from Rust + Moth, L’Ephemere Review, and Former Cactus, among other lovely places.
Image: Sue Rickhuss via Pixabay
The Cabinet of Heed 