spiders under
my chandelier
spinning their
prickly legs at
my mail, the
bills from the Los
Angeles Times
with articles about
presidents and
women with guns
and
unopened letters
from people i
once loved,
their poems
like seaweed
winding around
my ankles and
pulling me into
black water.
they pinch
their mouths at
me, clacking like
a parade of sour
harpies and I
have no poison
for arachnids.

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