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.