I wake up bleary and bleeding from my open heart. It’s another morning–the body craves water and cigarette and salt, the connection with another person. I ignore the latter for the former: the smoke and gasp, the paper cup emptied. On the window blind, big as Christmas, a harvestman beckons spiders to his pencil throat, legs planted. If I could call someone to move him… Stuck in the middle of the room, I regard the furrowed dot of his body. Bugs are unwelcome in my home, another interloper to my solitude. There is an internal fight–to save or squish the unwanted thing dead. I grab a tissue and pause, spot the  ceramic pot, and sweep the gentleman into his jail. After I whisk him into morning concrete, the granddaddy long-legs scurries away when I release him from the jar. I still surprise myself when I choose grace.

–

Bleary and bleeding, the body craves
cigarette and salt, the smoke and gasp.

A harvestman stuck in the middle of the room,
unwelcome, another interloper.

My solitude is an internal fight. The unwanted thing–
I pause, whisk him into the morning.

Daddy long-legs scurries away–I choose grace. 

–

The interloper.
The unwanted thing–I pause.
Long-legs, I choose grace.