What happens when you find yourself not yourself?
When stumbling stiff from slumber you spot a spider
ice skating the mirror above your paste and brush
and half-awake imagine glowing rooms of gossamer
waiting for babies yet unborn? So because you
are tired (or so you think) you leave her be
wondering what dream you forgot that allowed this
sharing of space. Then later, when dressing
for the day you find she has moved to the
porcelain sink—and your first thought is not
to put her in a shroud of toilet paper down the
baby Moses river, but instead you imagine
her washing dishes in her own kitchen, and because
you are in a hurry (or so you tell yourself) you let her stay
with all eight arm-legs covered in soap. And later still,
when dusk descends and the light is soft and warm,
you find her retiring in the tub, surprised again
there is no eagerness to stomp her out,
no fear she might decide to bed with you, and in
your calm construct a bed of tissue, in case (like you)
she needs a night of peace.
First published in Clover, A Literary Rag Vol. 6 in November 2013.