a spider breathed on my neck
by Maddy Freeman
I suppose I’m getting too close
to the daddy long legs spider
who refuses to touch the
sea-foam green and pearly
white tiles of my shower’s floor
because whenever I stand under
scalding hot water we commune
in a kind of tacit peace where
the water drops and delicate
soap suds on my porcelain skin
and the steam writing on the opaque
door never make me question my phobias.
but when I extend my arm to the spider,
who dangles above my soapy head,
I realize that he will never reach back to me.
then I realize my skin isn’t enough,
and marbles dipped in indigo paint
really aren’t the same as holding
the galaxy in the delicate palms
of your hand.
my mirror stares back at me with
identical hummingbird shell blue eyes
that flicker with the prospect of finding
gold flakes buried deep within (her) irises.
But that’s just glass
And the spiders will always stare;
and you’ll never be able to see anything
beyond the darkened shades of acrylic and
blue dreams that used to pour out of my
once rosy imagination