ides of october in forty-eight and a half

the trees sway sinuous, back and forth and beguiling, bending under the violent winds, floating great greyblack battleship clouds across the roiling depths of the atmosphere, as liquid as the distant ocean that birthed them.

the steel chimneyvent claps open and shut, clap, clap, edgy anthem for edgy times, a kinetic link to the outside world for what is otherwise a refuge of stillness and spiders.

the spiders live in his kitchen - have done for months (is it months?) - and grow fat by his hand, even as he grows thinner, diminished appetite these days. to pass the time he catches flies - it takes care to take them half-dead - and places them carefully in webs, steps back and watches. big black flies for the large one that lives in the corner of the window, fruit flies and mosquitoes for the smaller one that lives in the lush valley of a giant philodendron leaf spreading over his kitchen.

spin of silk, sink of fang, he is convinced that the spiders know him, understand he is a source of sustenance. he watches their tiny alien spider faces as he extends the hemostats that in a different life belonged to his mother toward them in a gesture transcending phyla and reason. he couldn’t say what understanding looks like in a spider.

when the girl gets home from work, she glances at the silver instrument on the counter, looks longer at him, and he explains to her the latin root of “companion” as one you break bread with.

you need to get a job, she says, eyes betraying amusement and compassion both…

Last updated October 14, 2016