Saturday, August 17, 2013

from the obsolete word coppe

Spiders started making silk to protect their bodies.

I'll begin by wearing what is pleasant, what is nice to touch, what has that "maybe she's a sensible person" look. You might notice. You might like my shoes. These feet have walked on your back when you said it would help. The knots need tough love, you said.

Spiders gradually started using silk for hunting purposes, first as guide lines and signal lines.

You watched me walk across the street carrying an orange flag. I was trying to be safe, I said. You are trying to be funny, you said. Not everything is a joke, I said. Not everyone laughs, you said. I put the orange flag back and we continued to walk in silence to wherever the crosswalks led. Look both ways, but not back.

Webs allow a spider to catch prey without having to expend energy by running it down.

You were there. Just there. You knew what books were good books to read and you cleaned up nicely. You fit perfectly into a warped mold, so I decided okay. Then your things started appearing on my nightstand and I couldn't take it. I never wanted scented candles or baseball cards. And your books were starting to bug me. But you were there.

However, constructing the web is in itself an energetically costly process.

Enough said. We never talked.

Spiders do not usually adhere to their own webs.

It's the idea that catches me and holds me and strangles me until I can't do what I've always done when I can't do anything else -- breathe. The idea of you, the idea of me, the idea of another life that frees me from a control I've chased after since before we were a we. How do I complete that part of me? How have spider webs existed for 100 million years and I've only gotten caught in one?

1 comment:

Meg said...

This is strong writing. Thank you and more please. :)