Lizzy Burnam 🐞

In the morning I circle the house, opening
all the blinds. If the sun’s out, I step outside 
to smile at the sky and check the moisture 
of the soil round my carrots. If the sun’s away
still, I press my hand against the window 
to feel the weather on my palm. They say
whatever you give to the world comes back
to you threefold, so I try to give the universe 
the benefit of the doubt; surely all this rain 
will help me reap what I’ve sown. I extend 
the extent of my dream-collected offerings 
to the altar of a poem. For breakfast, I eat 
fried eggs or pineapple or sometimes nothing 
at all. I take my coffee like a prayer. I check
the mirror to read my lines for today’s stage. 
Action! til my work is done. Before dark falls, 
I go walking with no destination in mind except
home. The black cats emerge from behind 
bramble bushes and we fall in step together, 
parallel: soldiers of the neighborhood stroll. 
I read the indictments rolling in and sweep 
away their shadows as they go. I fantasize 
about squashing the spider and then I don’t. 
Sometimes I’m jealous, though. I got these 
two big feet to keep the peace when rumbles
come from below, and you, sweet arachnid, 
are so squash-able—and so ticklishly small!