They say that this is the age when
you start thinking in images
rather than words. Here are some words:
“You shouldn’t have gone in there. What
happened to your clothes?” Leftover
pictures: On the wall, a woman’s
photo plastered above a bunk,
legs open. Other senses kick
in: The bouquet of soil threading
between the boards, a door closing
in the adjacent room, moist breath
on the small of your back. Recall
playing the rug on the hollow
floor, underlooking the gravel
road: Once there were others watching
with you; once there was a man whose
face is a thumbprint. Mostly you’re
alone, but there’s still that friendly
whitethorn scraping the window. They
bulldozed it while you were away,
to put up a yellow stable
for thoroughbreds. But the willow
which used to hide its façade is
still there. It’s next to the silo
where yellow striped spiders—you called
them “fiss-sized” in those days—consumed
and reconstructed their homes each
night. Remember abducting young
grasshoppers to rattle their webs?
In your picture-thoughts you marveled
at how quick that motionless X
became with a nymph smothered in
its silk. Their two jumper legs would
kick at the spiracles of their
aggressor’s; the four little ones
bent and curled like ungreased hinges.
You always had a chuckle or
two at their dance of creaks and moans.
More words: “Sometimes they got away.”
Spoiler! :
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