A wolf carved a hole of a web
on the side of the house and caught moths.
He is a mathematician; he practices addition
and subtraction. In the morning, some things appear
while others vanish. When I cry wolf, I cry spider
and spider, wolf. If I could, for you I'd spin
a whole house of silk from my body,
a mansion carved in the space of a doorjamb.
I envy the spider his sight. He's got eight eyes
to see all things clearly, and in every dimension.
If you want to find the mouth of the burrow,
flash a light and look for eye shine. Look for the glint
of a threatened thing. If you want to find my house,
take a left on Locust. There's a porch swing
and bright flowers, but home begins at the trapdoor
in the eaves above the bell. If you cry wolf
I'll answer as spider, my spider will answer
as me. Every day we eat our own webs
and use our legs to measure distance. We fly
from the sills and shoot intruders. It all sticks.
The spider's tricky. Every morning,
another clingy web to wipe from the siding.
He doesn't want to snag a single bug:
he wants to capture and wrap the whole house.
©
is the author of The Veronica Maneuver (forthcoming, The University of Akron Press), and What the Spigot Said (High5 Press). Poems have appeared in American Letters & Commentary, Best New Poets, Columbia Poetry Review, Barrow Street and elsewhere, and criticism and reviews in Jacket2, Spoke Too Soon, and The Offending Adam. A native of the Seattle area, Jennifer is an assistant professor of creative writing at Ohio Northern University and lives in Defiance, Ohio.
We’ve published two more poems by Moore: “[If I suggest a toy for you to play with]” and “[You are a pool of oil].”
