[tarantula nebula]
Buoyed by thoughts of wild autonomy
on a sea of self-assurance
I stride over a trail through dusk
And stop mid-stride.
The airy light of nightfall
freezes in midair
As a tarantula slithers ‘cross the path
its haggard body swaying from eight
spiny snips of black pipe cleaner.
It darts forward
then pauses
To stare back at me
With eight unreadable inky eyes
that bulge like bubble wrap
ready to pop.
The sea recedes around me.
Worn-out and over-used
the spider looks like an old mop
or a young street urchin
who’s seen too much and eaten
too little
but remains cunningly spiteful
behind an innocuous façade.
Its faded stoplight eyes dare me to retreat
or face whatever frontal assaults it can muster
But I refuse to budge
in petrified defiance
or I cannot budge
with one foot locked in midair.
Dust drifts between us
as we face each other
hands hovering over our pistols
in a Western duel
And time scampers softy through the brush
leaving us behind.
I stand my ground
And it turns and scuttles towards shadows
With shrunken legs flying rhythmically
Like the chipped oars of a tall ship
Flaying a gravel sea.
I hurry home
out of the cathartic cold
to the welcoming warm arms
that I will let go of
someday
not today.
