Wives of Spiders
The man at work who tells you
you need to smile more only has
the best of intentions. How degrading
must a joke be before a customer can touch or punch
your work-weaned arm? How many
more unsolicited opinions of what
constitutes as work and how your work
doesn’t fall into those categories
before you get your fifty-cent raise,
before you can stop considering
instant ramen a luxury?
In this arm, you hold everything wrong with yourself
in the eyes of others; this pliable straw, like a coffee stirrer
brewing the blood in your arm with the inability for life.
You, this jewel of Clotho, this tarantula-womb of life spewing from you
endless threads of clotted possibilities and you have the audacity to burn it dry
because you are career-focused,
because you are stopping this lineage, proudly,
because you are not woman enough, no, don’t want to be woman enough to bear life.
You, this daytime drinker, this shit-faced, sky-faced, head-in-the-clouds thinker
of thoughts such as writing should be work.
How many more times do you write yourself out
of this life sized up with unsolicited eyes
before you write yourself out of it
or write yourself out of yourself?
“wives of spiders” is a poem I wrote in 2019. It was published in the feministic series at a) glimpse) of), which you can read online.