I keep moving because I am
an arachnid. From way up
there you can't see my frowns.
It's almost like you can't see movement
at all. Nobody sees patience
like an arachnid. My fur is a
collapse. The human sees less about arachnids
than he'd like to believe. He has his nose
on a deadline. He has his panties in a twist. He can't seem
to see that I'm elongated, that I'm no longer just
a poison dart. My looks are only
part of me, baby. This larva has a
multiplicity of beds. This excretion moves
at will. Don't come in here while I'm
changing. My secrets move babies
on their toes. I see that tiny item in
here. Linear or alone.
Arachnids like me. Arachnids
like me have so little
to move. No one can really
see us causing. Keep backing
out of the forest, soon enough
your tush will touch a fire.
Any sort of contact bred from choice
is automatically burlesque. Any arachnid
knows feelers aren't the edge. Any spider scorns
the limits to a jar.
Vanilla ice cream is like
withering. When you're the kind
of flavor-packed individual you
are from far, crowning is
unavoidable. You have your hair
like that famous one. Preserved
vegetables make me feel
environmentally safe. The drummers are
larger than their instruments.
They say hold on, baby,
it's about to blow. Small
explosions remind me
of miniscule video cameras.
Hidden, we are all around
joy. The man from the internet
has a lot of small barbs. Lucky
for me, I find his laughter
institutional. The higher
walls are like frozen, tamed
astronauts. Anything made
for space is flattened, and
slipped into a brine.
Leora Fridman lives in Massachusetts. Her recent and forthcoming publications are included in Lumina, Sub-lit, The New Delta Review, The Rio Grande Review, The Jerusalem Post, and others. She is an MFA candidate at UMass Amherst.