Howard Firkin
The X waits like a spider in the dark
recesses of an alphabet she wants
to head: a signature of ignorance,
a blight, infecting any spot she marks,
a symbol of my every damn mistake.
She knits her filthy skeins because she must
convince herself and friends she’s trapping game.
If only she could work out who’s to blame:
her most elaborate webs collect most dust,
and no one gives her what she says she’ll take.
Suspended venom in a bulb of flesh—
her toxins all that she can call her own—
she waits for someone to embrace her mesh
of sticky lies, and prove she’s not alone.
recesses of an alphabet she wants
to head: a signature of ignorance,
a blight, infecting any spot she marks,
a symbol of my every damn mistake.
She knits her filthy skeins because she must
convince herself and friends she’s trapping game.
If only she could work out who’s to blame:
her most elaborate webs collect most dust,
and no one gives her what she says she’ll take.
Suspended venom in a bulb of flesh—
her toxins all that she can call her own—
she waits for someone to embrace her mesh
of sticky lies, and prove she’s not alone.