Erica Dawson
Brown Recluse	from the basement
Talking in bed ought to be easiest Philip Larkin But it’s talking to yourself—inside, as cars Pass by, high beams like April lightning, mist On your slat windows bending beams to bars Broken—and only you, no accompanist But the fiddleback over a game of whist, Bid whist, big joker up. You’re the champion Trickster, playing all the roles. The skeleton Of a spider’s web, in fragile strands, breaks, spun By the roving fan, picking up carrion Crickets, cat-mangled flies that seemed to twist Into hysterics when the light bulb hissed Itself to death. The glass bruises. The char’s Spreading. It’s black. And, damn it, you do exist Beneath the ceiling’s darkened stucco stars, Or sea anemone, or coral reef In an inverted ocean where the sun Would pierce your body or the crumpled sheaf Of dog-pissed papers, berber threads. There’s none Unless you see it, say it, Darlin’ Hon. You lie as if dead-starfish fucked, and kissed, Legs spread, arms out. You’re your clandestine tryst Ménage à un. You write yourself a list On Post-it notes rustling in one tightened fist Then tossed aside. You’re subterranean In your own words. You’re Machiavellian. You’re fine, big-voiced and mum, verbose and brief. Rain swells in flooded corners, stains near one Sole on its side with a clinging maple leaf.   return to 1.2