Before The Reading
While sitting on the toilet, a poet watches a speck spinning in front of her nose. The smallest spider she’s ever seen is dangling from a web. She resists the urge to smack it away with her giant hand. Instead, she says, "Hello," which seems silly but feels right.
She looks around the ancient bathroom of the university guest house. In the corners of the ceiling, all around the window frame and clinging to the slightly moldy curtains are hundreds of minuscule spiders. If someone glued them all together, they might be the size of a water bug or beetle.
Standing up, the poet is careful not to break the gossamer strand of web. She washes her hands, wonders how many students will actually show up for the poetry reading. She thinks about her fascination with words, how miraculous it seems when they fit like puzzle pieces, creating a poem. Perhaps God felt a similar sense of completion when He made these spiders - like so many perfect Haiku for people passing by, to read.
submitted at 2:31pm
1 July 2010
Terri Kirby Erickson's web: