What the Spider Said
I carry no memories, only silk.
I had a mother and father once, I know this
because I have created hundreds of children.
My willingness to abide comforts on long nights
and in dark corners.
Of course breath sustains me, along
with the million fragments of color,
the shape of everything multiplied.
Change the music little girl;
call the notes from your diaphragm
inside the honeycomb nest.
Find some beautiful shades of naples yellow.
See? Even the buzzing bees
tingle with symphonies, electricity.
There can be no fear where notes
ring true. The cello’s clear G after an A
will overshadow your tears, the audience
will swell in the current of the melody.
Sway with your eyes shut tight
and everything will disappear. Call
the music to you like the bee keeper
spins honey—golden, sticky, sweet.
Author’s note: I write very narrative poems most of the time: poems that have stories, clear speakers with intentions. These two poems feel fragmented to me for that reason. They stopped giving me words very quickly, and I was moved to revise them into shorter and shorter versions, even removing the second “speaker” in the first poem. While they are still somewhat narrative, they are abstract, unfinished. More could be said, clarified, detailed, but I kept feeling them ask, “What need?”
Kristin LaTour has poems forthcoming in The Adroit Journal, Adanna and dirtcakes. Her most recent online publication is at Protest Poems. Readers can hear her read her work at her website, kristinlatour.com. She lives in Aurora, Illinois with her husband and two dogitos.