quietly

i.
on the porch
in the warm
bundle of august,
a spider made its web.

round and round it went,
it spun. determined.
at an angle just so,
you'd see it climb
right into the blue
and clouded sky.

ii.
the veneer is
smooth and matte.
when you say
with wooden cadence,
it is no longer worth pursuing.
we are not. or me. I am not.
nothing in your manner splinters.
yet it is so painful,
how you lodge into my skin; 
how you are lodged, festering.

I don't know why I ever loved you; 
as if it could be reasoned.
and I nearly disappear completely.

iii.
it all comes down
to when you choose to exist;
when between the pause in small talk
you open your mouth to unfurl creation,
your creation making personal genesis
with tongue and teeth and will.

you take wing on the full force of understanding
that you deserve to be seen at least once; 
a decision not easily made but with a clawing desperation
because no one else will bring you into this world.
no one else.
not even your mother.

iv.
there is much left to be seen.