A brace of dead ones
at the foot of the steps,
a present from the neighbor whose
starved dead dog she had patted
and fed. Big, city-basement ones,
poisoned so unmarked, two plump
pouches, their faces finished
where she would not look.
Hole-black! Denser than utmost darkness.
She pushed their small peculiar weights
onto the snow shovel, the terrible tails
writhing senselessly down into the shiny black
bag, the tying shut difficult too.
Streaming clouds, the late sun less
than the lights on next door, she backed
up against her own house, threshold
above cellar and gutter.
Afraid to stay out, afraid to go in.
from Inside Spiders
Copyright © Persea Books 2013
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.