Creation Myth Number One
In the House of Abandoned Children a boy leans over to watch a spider wrap a fly, a fragile gift. There
is a tenderness here not unlike mothering, a caring in the way the handless arms turn the prey round and round,
wrapping it in varying diagonal threads until it becomes a swaddled white ball. In hooked mandibles the spider holds
the trophy up over her head. For the spider, the boy's face is a planet or god, a blessing. The boy, bored now,
pinches the spider between thumb and forefinger-how its milky brain pops out! Bad Mommy, says the boy, unwrapping
the fly from its silky casing. The fly vomits, then flits and buzzes about the boy's ears. Mad with disillusion
and regret, the boy climbs to the roof and leaps. To his amazement he rises upward, the house shrinking beneath
him. Funny, he thinks, from here the House of Abandoned Children looks so, so.... He reaches
down and crushes it with one little twist of his thumb, its light bursting out to fill the vastness of the night
sky with stars.
What I Called For
There's a rat scuttling beneath my ribcage looking for scraps
There's a single butterfly wing fluttering
in the palm of my hand.
There's a table, newly
built, with your voice varnished beneath it.
a thorn that I kiss when I want to hear my favorite song.
There's no such thing as crime, but there are dogs trying to break the laws
date tree that grows underwater, and a kind of ballet that only
sleepwalkers can see.
a scalpel so sharp it cuts between thoughts.
There's a mirror that reflects only what it wants to.
There is an ocean that tames children's hearts by holding onto their feet.
There is a hat that keeps the sky afloat above me.
There are tufts of hair that grow from the letters in this book.
There is a single word that captures everything I could ever despise.
There is someone swimming against the current, tirelessly fighting
the waves, beneath a white cottage on a hillside,
There is a bed sheet roiling, fog atop two restless bodies.
-from Praying to the Black Cat